Capitain Scaramouche Vengeance Victorious
by TWSythar
Summary: CS Arc 5. Grantaire and his friends discover that their enemies are not as far away as they thought. Everyone must work together if they are to have any hope of getting one of their own back alive. Chapt 19 - Vidocq Cameo.
1. Terrible In The BloodyMinded Anger

**A/N - here's the first chapter of the new arc! For those who have been missing the swashbuckling element of CS, we assure you there will be plenty to look forwards to in the coming chapters. To start with we'll be updating once a week as we build up our store of chapters, but we hope to have enough to soon build up to twice a week again. **

It had been a month since Dominic Bahorel had seen Grantaire. A month – that's four weeks, you know, and nearly thirty days. You could count on him to know that much at least, oui? Bahorel didn't mind being called _un bœuf du campagne_ for a joke, among amis, but never had he been made to feel so stupid before. Even a country ox's got some common sense in him, and gets to sleep in the barn when it's cold. But, Hell – what did he know?

There were the three of them, sitting by the window with their wine and coffee, and interrupting their chat every once and again to glance his way. Joly, Feuilly, L'Aigle, the new inseparables. They were in the Café Musain together every Tuesday and Friday night now, something about Feuilly's boss' new wife – what did he care? Anyway, Dominic didn't see a point in changing his own habits just because _they_ were there. Let them go to the devil, all three of 'em, and their precious Scaramouche too.

True, a month was an awfully long time to be angry at anyone, even if you weren't Bahorel, but it wasn't like he hadn't _tried_. It wasn't any good trying to talk to them, because it was only too clear what they _really_ wanted to talk about, and he wasn't allowed to listen. Add to that, that Feuilly was utterly humorless and anyway refused to let other people buy his drinks; that Joly suddenly couldn't take his jokes either, had turned sharp-edged, and seemed rather prissier than ever; and that L'Aigle's awkwardness looked like it'd gone from the friendly kind to the kind wondering how to get rid of a fellow…well. Bahorel flipped his watch open and snapped it shut again. Luc was _late_, damn th'homme –it wouldn't have bothered him if he hadn't promised himself there _two hours _ago, which even by Dominic's standards was pushing it. There was supposed to be a play on, but at this rate they'd miss too much of it to make it worth the trouble of getting in late. Probably he'd run into some grisette and forgotten all about him.

But _there_ was Luc coming up the steps, wonderful. Dominic turned to look and started opening his mouth to ask what the hell'd been keeping him, but shut it sourly. It wasn't Luc at all; no, it was Grantaire. Must be off his sickbed at last, hm! L'Aigle brightened up a bit and waved the newcomer over to cheerful cries of 'Mind your ribs, Perceval' and 'Maurice! Who gave you coffee' and…and so on and so forth. Bahorel simply shut them out, as Perceval and his dear little League were doing to him.

But did he really want to shut them out forever? No…no. Maybe he _had_ got other amis, but it wasn't really the same. Since they weren't going to talk to him, _he_ was going to have to talk to _them_.

To that end, Dominic put his drink down, got up and strode across to them, and stopped Grantaire before he had quite sat down in the chair which Feuilly had _just_ so solicitously pulled over for him. "Think you lot can spare Grantaire for a minute?" he said to the little club seated there. They were looking back at him awfully suspiciously now, and Feuilly was glancing between him and L'Aigle in a way that clearly said 'Are you going to hit him again, and can I watch?'

"Is it important?" Grantaire said coolly.

"Yes. It is."

"All right then." Grantaire turned back to his p'tit _League_ and gave them a nod. "I'll be back in a minute. Don't drink _all_ the coffee, Maurice." The malade-imaginaire in question turned a delicate shade of pink, but switched his empty cup with his twin's full one since no one was looking. Well, no one except Bahorel, but he doesn't count, does he?

"Your bodyguards decided I wasn't a threat, hm?" Bahorel said to Grantaire once they were on the other side of the room again.

"…you said it was important, Bahorel," Grantaire said stiffly.

"It is."

"Well?"

Dominic couldn't help bristling at that cold, stiff tone. "Just wondering if you'd all gotten off your high horses yet."

Grantaire's eyes narrowed. "If it's nothing but this again, you'll excuse me."

"Why?" he shot back. "Still no explanation?"

"Explanation for what?" Grantaire frowned. "As far as I'm aware, you haven't _asked_ me for one."

"Oh, but I have."

"No. You haven't," Grantaire said, suddenly looking very irritated – yes, it _does_ hurt when people don't tell you things, doesn't it? Yes, it does. That's what I thought. "You want to tell me what your problem is, or are we going to go around in circles again?"

"Like I said. Up on your high horses." One month, four weeks, thirty days – because, M. Grantaire, I am not stupid and I can _count_ – one month's worth of irritation and anger and resentment was bubbling up into a delicious sense of superiority that Dominic wasn't going to let go of.

Grantaire just shook his head. "Goodbye, Bahorel." He turned to go, but then paused and dug in his pocket, drew out a coin, and tossed it at him. It clattered to the floor untouched. "Here. Like I said, I don't want it."

"Don't just walk away from me, you coward," Bahorel said.

Grantaire laughed, and it grated against Dominic's nerves. "…best you can do? Sticks and _stones_."

He laughed back, and suddenly was quite ready to forget they had ever been friends – that he had ever met this man. Comforting thought, forgetting that. "That's the worst rationalization there is for not being able to fight like a man."

"And thinking prudence is cowardice is what gets most young fools killed these days."

"Prudence?" Bahorel jeered at this stranger. "Prudence is the domain of old women scared to let their sons touch their inheritances."

He wasn't touched; he shrugged and grinned sarcastically. "Whatever you like, Bahorel. Whatever you like."

And he was walking off again. We couldn't have _this_. "Oh, running back to those so-called friends of yours, are you?"

"Damn straight," Grantaire spat.

He just laughed. "So it's true then, what they say about fools keeping company with each other."

The other man stopped where he stood before turning completely around. "…now see here. You've got a bone to pick with me, fine. But you leave my friends out of it."

"Oh, like you're going to do anything about it."

Grantaire's fists clenched. "Trust me, Bahorel. You don't want to fight with me."

Oh, but I _do_. Watch me do what it takes to get you to fight me, coward. "What're you going to do, flail a bit and sic your little dogs, over there, on me?"

"I told you," he said, and his eyes narrowed further, "Leave them out of this."

"I'll say what I like." Simple strategy: Find a weak point and hammer it until you break.

"I'm warning you not to," Grantaire said.

"I'm flouting that warning," Bahorel said boldly. The other man glared fiercely, but only dug his nails into his palms and started to walk away. Can't be having _that_. "Oh yeah, just run away! Go have fun saving the world with your little tagalongs, huh, you're no friend of _mine_ anymore."

Grantaire whipped back around. "Say that again."

"Which part, O Brave One?" he smiled.

"…that little thing about my _friends_," the other man said calmly.

"Oh, friends, is that what you call them?" Bahorel said dismissively, probing for something to make Grantaire snap. "They're a pretty sad excuse for them, that's for sure."

Dominic wasn't exactly sure what happened next. All he knew amid the bright flash of pain was that his back was on the floor instead of his feet and his chest felt like it might have just imploded of its own accord.

"Need a hand, Perceval?" said a voice from the edge of his vision, and he blinked and looked up to see Grantaire's little group of followers standing beside their hero. That must have been L'Aigle offering.

"Yeah, we'll gladly lend you one," Feuilly cut in.

"Or three," Joly added darkly.

"…No. Thanks, amis, but no," Grantaire told them. "This is between Bahorel and myself. Don't interfere, if you love me." Of course they all demurred and backed off like good little children, glaring at him from under their brows. "You want a fight?" he asked Bahorel.

"Yeah, if you're not opposed to it," Dominic said, slowly levering himself up by way of a nearby table. "And if they'll _allow_ it."

"They'll not interfere," he replied calmly. "Not even if you should happen to get the better of me." The good little children didn't look so sure of that, but it'd be a wonder if they disobeyed Grantaire in anything now.

"There's no 'happen' about it," Bahorel scowled in bravado.

"I think you'll find me ready for you, Bahorel," Grantaire said, a hint of disdain in his voice.

"We'll see about that." And the first punch was _his _this time, but somehow…somehow his opponent blocked him like a professional and gave him a smart, rather (ow) painful rap to the ribs, and…god, well, maybe this wouldn't be _quite_ as easy as he'd thought it would be…


	2. Hold Up Our Heads And Fight Low

**A/N: Next chapter everyone! Thanks to all the reviewers! To Mademoiselle Grantaire - many hugs and thanks for the review, dear. I'd reply directly but your account doesn't accept PMs anymore. xxx**

How it'd happened in the end, he'd no particular idea. Mesdammes and messieurs here we are for your payin' and bettin' pleasure - and put a sous or two on the big fella for me, will you? I gotta make my living here too even 'f I am one of the ones in the ring that you're all staring at - Grantaire and Bahorel. Five 'l get you ten that one of 'em ends up on the ground before the second round. Ten 'l get you more than ten that leading with his right while forgetting to completely guard his side is going to get M Bahorel there into something of a bit of trouble, isn't it? Are you betting on him? You over there. The table. You look well off. Something about your simply charming bit of linen draped over you so modestly. The blue suits you, chere. Really really does, no lies and would I lie to you anyway? look at me, I'm not exactly a paragon but I'd never lie to a table. Anyway, just a tip, m'lady. Any man who leads with his fist like that and that bit of sloppy blocking around his side - well, he's going to get walloped.

Moments flashed and he felt as though there were shifting dirt beneath his feet with the scatter of sawdust that was never enough to do much more than leave a stain on the shirt and up your nostrils. Dirt beneath the feet, dull roaring in your ears and not all of it coming from your heart beat but from the crowd. Always a crowd watching, the audience to play to, to give bones to in packages as though they were boquets of herbs tossed in a stew. One audience demanded a clown of laughter and smiles and tears, the other wanted the clown who bled and sweated and broke and fell but damn you - get up again and smile or you'll have less bouts next time and less chances to earn.

His oponent grunted and swung, fist coming towards his weak ribs. Strategic. Nice. A bit slow. Underestimating Grantaire. It happened sometimes. He grabbed the man's fist, palm brushing out past the flat of the hanf and slapping on flesh to pull him tight and close and boxing his ears smartly. Ringing. Disorientation, use the advantage to dance back, two three and to the side and weave a little not that he's turned yet.

The boxer staggered a bit, two or three moments longer than Grantaire had expected, but rallied and turned to meet him. Grantaire waited for him - the odd moment of sportsmanship being allowed in a match and whether allowed or not he always managed to slip it in. The boxer panted, like a big brawny bull giving him a wary eye up and down from his chapeau to the holes in his socks, before raising his guard and waiting.

My turn. A feint two - three to the left and then the right and then _jab _at the nose_. Merde._ The man ducked in time and a fist caught him in the stomach, glancing as he jerked away but _oof_. A grunt. A bit of sweat and a few bones to the audience. Ouch. In retaliation, eye for eye business, he clipped the boxer's chin not hard enough to make damage.

Fist hammering into his shoulder, move with the blow, only partial damage but god it hurts. Lash out - torso left open. Hard blows, push this towards the end. Flagging, not in condition for a long fight. Only one blow connected where it was meant to, but it drove the man backwards and Grantaire followed it with a series of feints. Confuse. Disorient. blind side and then whamto the head - move. Keep moving, keep dancing, little clown. The people want their pound of flesh but with blood as a chaser.

The boxer jerked, and there's the blood and first blood at that from his nose, Pretty. A surge and then something weighty slammed into his side and Grantaire heard a noise like a throttling man might spit out with his last breath. It was only three full seconds later that he realised in the throbbing daze of pain that he was the throttled man.

Ouch. God willing they weren't broken again. Ouch, dieu what the hell? Something of the air of the match dissolved and it was grudge against grudge again, Dominic Bahorel having just punched him directly in the ribs.

Courfeyrac somewhere outside the ring, angry and loud-voiced, "Hey! Hey! What are you doing, you putain connards?" It's a wonder we haven't had the police called yet really, isn't it? I'm assuming the connards bit of that doesn't extend the arm of egalite and fraternite to Bahorel here.

Alex then, and was this all happening while he stood still and gawped in pain or had time not slowed down to a turtle-backed crawl like he felt it might have? "We're stayng out of this, just like you are."

Duck, Grantaire. He did, and danced to the side, still catching up with reality.

"So simmer _down_, De Courfeyrac." Daniel. Grantaire smiled a little to himself and slapped Bahorel's next punch away, being now able to draw breath again into clear lungs.

Maurice actually drawling, "Yes, before the steam coming out of your ears makes your hair start to frizz."

"Clobber the bastard one for me, amigo!" Courfeyrac said.

"Right on it!" with that, though Grantaire had no idea how but then his world was still ringing to the tune of bones and blood and halfway between, Bahorel drove another fist into his ribs.

"Low blow, Bahorel." He managed to grit it out without groaning or yelping or something similarly embarrassing. He managed and he wasn't sure how because god that had really hurt.

Bahorel grinned. "Nothing worse'n you've given me in spirit."

...that doesn't even make sense. I hate it when repartee doesn't make sense. Should be a damn _crime_. "Really now?" His guard was up. And I know that's not particularly clever but good god, I am not a magician and I cannot make wit out of this sow's ear you have given me.

"Yeah. Really."

Worse and worse. You know what? Dieu. I'm _angry_. I never box angry, but I'll make an exception for you, mon homme. "Never picked you for someone to kick a man when he's down," he said, and pulled to the right a little, watching as Bahorel's eye began to track him, guard shifting place to keep up and fists bunching ready to block and strike in turn. Almost looks like I'm going for _your_ ribs, doesn't it?

He punched Bahorel in the chest and there was no more repartee. The fight was over. He was tired and aching and _damn_ it to hell, he'd had enough of this charade. We're not boxers in a ring, we're not gallants jousting over some femme and her bit of haberdashery. We're men in a corner of a cafe punching each other because you wouldn't shut up about my friends. That's stupid.

Punch to the chest again. Wham. Wham. Wham to the head.

Right hook.

Ah. The winner emerges. Usually at this point the crowd cheered or booed, depending on whom they had wasted or won money on. One down, one standing, and he was the one standing and wiping blood off his chin and onto his sleeve. There was no cheering this time, just silence from the cafe. Fitting. Blood and bones were the footfalls of brutality, and had tracked mud over the floor, leaving camaraderie silent and peace in tatters.


	3. Angering The Blood Bewildering The Sense

**A/N Sorry it's a short chapter this time! Will upload another in a couple of days to make up for it. Do enjoy and thanks to all our reviewers! **

Bahorel lay where he was. He could feel and taste the blood sliding down the back of his throat now...he thought of opening his eyes, but…his head was swimming, but…no, his head seemed to be all tangled up wit' his feet, but…

Dam'…

He coughed. Or – tried to cough. Coughing shook too much of the rest of him.

"You done, then?" someone said far away, far above him, somewhere. He nodded vaguely. "…well, then," the someone continued coldly, and it came to him that that someone sounded a lot like Grantaire, "Keep this in mind in future…last man I was in the ring with is still in hospital because I broke his jaw, collarbone, and three fingers, and dislocated his knee. Next time I won't play so nicely with you, c'est compris?"

Oh, yeah. Grantaire. He managed a sort of grunt. "Oui."

"Right," Grantaire said sharply. "What, you want a turn?"

"I'll pass," another familiar voice said. Dominic got his eyes open enough to see Grantaire standing over him, and Lucien coming his way. _There_ y'are, ami, took you long enough. Guess that play's out of the question no- _damn_ you, Luc de Courfeyrac, don't touch me, that _hurts_.

"You _connard_. You've putain broken his nose!" Lucien yelped with a few more muttered swears.

"Oh, be quiet, he deserved it," Feuilly said somewhere.

"I could have done worse," Grantaire said flatly. "He was doing his damndest to re-bust my ribs."

Dominic made a small grunt of protest at this – he hadn't meant to do that _exactly_ – but it was covered up by Luc's angry "Baise toi."

"You want me to take this one, Perceval?" L'Aigle said somewhere else. Bahorel wished he could sit up and see properly.

"Oh, well of course," Lucien said snippily, "You're a dam' pestilential _League_."

Grantaire looked like he might be glaring. He was still a little too fuzzy for Dominic to tell. "I'm going to say this only once to the pair of you. Another remark about my friends, and I will throw you out of this café."

"All right now, what's happening here?"

What? Was that _Combeferre_? When did he…Dominic had to see this. He tried pushing himself up – _god_, ow. No luck. "Hey Luc…gimme a hand up, 'mi?" he managed to slur.

"You all right?" _Careful_, Luc, _careful_...damn that hurts…"Dam' bastard took a lucky shot."

"More'n one," Dom said, putting his weight on Luc. Yeah, there was Grantaire, an' L'Aigle an' Feuilly, an' Joly hiding out behind Combeferre - whatever Combeferre happened to be doing here.

"It's nothing, Combeferre," Grantaire was reassuring M. Spectacles. "A little private matter between myself and Bahorel. It's been settled."

"_Little_?" Combeferre was saying as he looked over Bahorel in the same way doctors always did, namely 'what-in-Hades-_have_-you-done-to-yourself-now'. Dominic attempted to grin back at that slight smile but felt most of his face was not moving. Damn.

"Oh yes," Grantaire said around the handkerchief held to his lip.

"Nothin' really," Bahorel mumbled.

But Courfeyrac heard. Given the shocked stares everyone else was giving him, so had they. "_Amigo_!" Luc yelped.

Dominic slid off him into a chair and grunted at the pain. "…wha'? 'Sbeen settled, like 'e said." Not only did it hurt to talk, it sounded awfully strange, and a ginger touch to his nose –nom de _Dieu_, _dammit_, ow…confirmed it was swelling up something awful too. Not only had it been settled, he was _paying_ for it.


	4. That Friend and Fellow Sheep

**A/N: Here's the second chapter this week since 3 was quite short. Thank you all for the reviews and comments! Oh - and as I think I failed to mention - titles come from Dickens' Tale of Two Cities, another influence in the development of Capitain Scaramouche.**

For the last month, mes amis, we've barely spoken. No, not a word of general cordiality has passed between us, and I know I'm commonly the peace-maker but how _does_ a man make peace between his own self and several of his Once We Were Very Good Friends I Think? No, they hadn't spoken and Dom had been more than angry, he'd been sulky and grouchy and no real fun, and had refused to play dominoes or billiards or anything good natured, hadn't wanted to go to dances and had to be dragged along to somewhere decent to get _clothes_ Dominic Bahorel you are _not _going to the ball with me and ma femme like _that_. And then he would drink a bit and look happier for a while but mostly he _wasn't_ happy.

And dieu bless us all, Luc Courfeyrac - who really did not appreciate how often that damned particle was being shot at his head - picked a side and when he _did_ pick a side, he damned well _stayed_ with that side. The Cause is my Cause, vive La France, and fraternity between us two forever, and all that.

So now Dominic looked like a raw side of beef all mangled for roasting and didn't seem to _mind_... well. Well really it just didn't seem to make much sense. It did, of course, make complete sense in other ways - since Dominic was like this. Luckily they didn't argue often because the preferred method in Bahorel's mind of working out such differences was to slug each other, and Luc liked his nose the shape it _was_ thank you ever so very kindly. Not, of course, that he was opposed to fighting in general, but knowing Dominic - his nose _would_ be the first thing that idiot would punch for.

He found himself making a very inelegant spluttering noise, and stopped. Grantaire was standing off to one side relatively none-the-worse for wear, raising a surprised and ever-so-cool eyebrow in their direction and flanked by his hangers-on like he was some incarnation of Louise 16th. And you know what, mes amis? We have some pride. You all are such _special_ mille-feuilles now, aren't you? All so very special and shiny and better than the rest of us, eh?

And Grantaire there something like your god now, isn't he? You do whatever he says and cluster around like he brings the words of Le Bon Dieu in his mouth instead of yesterday's wine. Oh oui, now he's something of a hero _everyone_ wants him. You've all forgotten that he was the drunk in the corner two months back annoying Enjolras with his thirteenth classical quotation and flirting with Louisson. You've forgotten, but we haven't.

M. Spectacles came forwards and crouched near Dominic. "Here... let me take a look at that, Bahorel."

"Suit y'sef," Dom said wetly and indistinctly, and Lucien caught a series of confused and bewildered glances being shared by the damned League, as though they were asking 'why whatever is the strange species of Frenchman that is Dominic Bahorel doing? We have studied his habits and this seems most irregular!'

Damn them.

"Hmmm," Combeferre was saying. "It's busted. Want me to fix it?"

"May's well." Dom set his teeth and Luc winced in sympathy. His own nose had never been broken, but Dom himself had described it as being like having onions in your eyes, a weight across your face and a damn huge pain like your nose is five times bigger and on fire from the inside. Ouch. Luc put a hand on his friend's shoulder just in case, and Combeferre made a swift skillful movement of his hands. There was a sick, moist crunching noise, and Dominic grunted a little.

Lucien winced again, oh _dieu_, and passed Combeferre his handkerchief - a present from what-ever-her-name-was last year. Combeferre ignored the embroidered blue flowers with his usual impassivity, and cleaned off Dominic's face as best he could.

"Fangs..." Dominic said.

Combeferre nodded, and gave him a quick checking over. "Well, you've nothing else broken - for which I'd say you're rather lucky."

"Mm-hm."

This judgement proclaimed, M. Eye-glasses and Stethescope straightened and fixed every single last homme in the room in turn with his gimlet eye and dieu, mon ami, what I wouldn't give to be able to replicate that look. "Well now. Is this little soiree finished? Are my services going to be required again?"

The League looked, _naturally _to their winecask, and Lucien found Dominic looking at him. Hey - mon ami - you said you were finished, so you're finished. I'm not arguing here. He shrugged in a 'unless you want me to fight, cher, I'm just going to make sure you get home safe' way, and _Dominic_ dear god of all people looked in his turn to M. My Feet Don't Touch The Ground Anymore Grantaire for confirmation.

Grantaire seemed completely unaware of the irony of the situation. "Quite finished, thank you Combeferre." His little group of admirers looked unhappy about this, but didn't argue - oh _no_ let's not _argue_. He might smite you with a thunderbolt.

"Very well then," Combeferre smiled and tipped his hat. "I will see you some other time, Glorious Leader." And with that spectacular exit line, Combeferre left.

For a long series of moments there was silence as everyone tried to decide whether or not Grantaire had just been almost sort of compared to Enjolras or not. Because really - dear god in heaven the world might just decide to stop in its tracks and turn upside down.

"Damn," Grantaire chuckled a little suddenly. "If even _he_ agrees..."

"Told you so."

"About time you listened."

"We should call Combeferre in more often."

It was like a chorus - a Greek chorus, to defer to Grantaire's preferences in mythology - and Lucien found himself still stuck back on the first sentence trying to understand what the hell Grantaire meant by that even as the group of happy little musketeers headed for the door, their leader linking arms with them.

"I cede, I cede. Well, now that the evening's excitement is over, shall we go to Marie's for dinner?"

Lesgle laughed. "You're the captain."

"Hear, hear!" Joly added with a grin.

Grataire shook his head, showing that he had at least _some_ sense of self-awareness left. "This is going to take _some_ getting used to."

"Not that much," Feuilly said firmly.

They left, Lesgle adding "We'll keep reminding you until you stop flinching," and Grantaire _laughing_. God - damn. What was _going on?_

The blasphemy pared itself in two before escaping his mouth in dutiful obedience to mother and religious upbringing. "Damn."

Dominic shook his head in mute agreement.

"How much damage'd he do?" Luc sat finally, blinking a bit to let his brain catch up.

"Broke m'nose," Dominic's speech was still thick, but they both had practice with that so Lucien mentally translated the indistinct vowels and consonents. "Think m'ribs are bruised... ears're ringing from getting m'head boxed like that."

"Damn," Luc said again in sympathetic understaning, and scowled for him because Dominic couldn't scowl right now. It was a sort of agreement they had where Luc would facially express Dominic's emotions when his face was too swollen to do so.

A tentative shake of the head. "'ve had worse."

"You say that every time," Luc grinned a bit. Yes ami, you really do. Every single time, but _damn_. "Bastard." Not you. Him. You know.

Dominic gave a small twist up of his lips. "Nah... he's not so bad."

And there we have it. Luc sat back and wasn't sure what to say - a phenonemon - but Dieu, ami. I was afraid of this. Not that it's a bad thing you're moving on - but ami not everyone works this way. Not everyone thinks it's all over and done once a few blows have been shared, 'n fact a few people'd say it makes your worse friends, not better. "...how hard'd you _hit_ your head, amigo?"

"Hard enough."

"Dom..." Oh ami. Ami, ami. Dear god, just think for a minute. Think, we've been at odds wi' the homme for a month no less and we've said all sorts and he's said all sorts and hell not everyone thinks a fist in the face washes our sins as white as the Christos' blood. "I don't know if you _can_ come around. I think it might be too late."

There was a shrug in reply, and it was useless. The idiot was fully intending to try and forget it all anyway. Hell - fine. It's over. We'll see how that works. B'sides. It's weird being mad at people for so long. "Just so's you've _thought_ about th' possibility." And that's all I'm going to say on the subject. "...Come on you big imbecile. I'll help you home, eh?"

"That'd be helpful." Dom got up with a deep groan. "Augh. Dieu, that's going to hurt in the morning."

Luc laughed. "Oh yes, but think of how pretty you'll look! All the colours of the rainbow, amigo."

"True... true..." Dom gave a chuckle - the first one in a while that was. Not that he didn't laugh, but chuckling was another matter. "Almost like a painting."

So we're happy for now, ami. Fine - let me help you home and we'll see whether or not M. Glorious Leader there is as easy to convince as you are, eh? I doubt it myself, but it's worth being a touch optimistic about such things sometimes.


	5. Beg A Little Talk With Your Brother

**A/N - Here is the next chapter everyone, and apologies for getting behind with the replies, it's been a hard week. We're still working on building up a big enough buffer to let us update more frequently so at the moment it will still be once a week sadly. Enjoy!**

Maybe Luc had had a _little_ bit of a point, Bahorel admitted to himself once the pain had begun to lessen. Grantaire hadn't seemed to consider it _all_ settled. It would be safer to go and explain himself, wouldn't it? (A part of him suddenly said _just _how _hard did you get knocked on the head, Dom?_ at the same time that another – _much_ smaller and quieter – part of him suddenly said _about time you started acting sensibly, Bahorel!_ ) He got himself up from his sofa and found it wasn't so hard to walk as he'd thought, so he went for his coat and hat and decided he'd better go before he changed his mind and never got his friend back.

Grantaire came to the door with a smile on his face – a real smile, which was shocking and Dom didn't think he'd ever actually seen him wear one. It faded the moment he saw who was outside. "Hey, I wasn't expecting you to…oh. Bahorel. Good evening."

"Evening, Grantaire," he said with a nod. Yeah. It's just me. Sorry 'bout that, eh? "Thought I owed you a bit of an apology."

"…really," Grantaire said in surprise. "Well." He coughed a bit and then opened the door all the way. "…come in then."

"Thanks."

He followed Grantaire inside and though I don't mind a bit of clutter, amis, this place is usually pretty bare, isn't it? But there's stuff all over the place at the moment and I'm pretty sure most of it wasn't left out by _him_. "Excuse the mess."

"It's fine," Bahorel shrugged. Not so much literally shrugged, he had to stop halfway because it hurt too much but – the thought was there. Grantaire gave him a look. A…very…Enjolras sort of look. And…please stop, ami, that's frightening. "Anyway, just thought I'd…stop and apologize for…earlier."

"It's fine," he said coolly. "We fought, it's over. So long as you don't do it again."

Oh. Good! Good, good, good. "A'right then. I won't, anyway," he added. "You're not a bad sort."

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. "…I'm not."

And now you're being odd again, and – hey, ami, c'mon, do we _really_ have to have this discussion? "Yeah. Guess you might say I got some sense knocked into me."

Grantaire continued on. "…so you're saying I should have decked you earlier."

"Well, maybe. It's not like you could've," Bahorel said very literally. "Being injured and all."

"Mmm," Grantaire said, and rubbed his ribs like they hurt. "Yes, I was quite badly hurt, wasn't I."

"Yeah…"

"I am quite a lot better now, thanks for asking," he said pointedly.

"I'm glad to hear it." What more do you _want_ from me, Grantaire? I'll give it. But what do you want me to _say_?

But he didn't seem to know what to do either. "What do you want, Bahorel?"

"I want to say I was wrong about you and…the others. And apologize." Really.

"…really. You mean for the lot?" Grantaire suddenly sounded a bit sharper. "Ignoring me. Insulting me. Deserting me. All that."

When you say it like _that_…"Yeah. –you don't have to accept it," he tried to add weakly.

"You two were the only two friends I _had_."

"I know."

Grantaire shook his head and didn't say anything for a few minutes. Did this mean they were done here? 'cause, uh, I really do love you 'mi but this is getting a bit awkward and – "Dam' near broke my heart," he said very quietly. And Bahorel fell silent too, and Grantaire shook his head again and took a deep breath like his heart was breaking again right now, and – dammit, things shouldn't be like this. "Yeah," Grantaire said finally. "I forgive you."

"You don't have to," Bahorel said flatly. 'Cause you don't. Really. I don't deserve it.

And Grantaire got a really twisted, sad smile on his face - he thinks things shouldn't be like this too. "I know."

"I'm a pretty sorry excuse for a friend," Bahorel offered.

"Yes," Grantaire nodded. "You are."

"Total bastard."

"…I'm not going to argue."

And now both of us are standing here getting busted on the inside instead of the outside - is that what it is? Your turn and now we're going to settle it _your_ way? Can't deny I'm getting the worst of it both ways. Especially with you looking at me like a beaten dog.

Grantaire tried to start again slowly. "…I don't…trust easily."

"I guess I could see that…" Bahorel said just as slowly.

"I…" Grantaire swallowed. "_Can't_ trust…"

"Oh." Oh. Right. I guess I…didn't think about tha'. Never really been an issue for me. "I…I understand."

"I'm sorry," Grantaire said quietly. "I can't help it."

"It's…it's fine."

He groaned. "…merde. _Why_?"

"Why…?" Why what, ami?

"Yeah. Why?" He was pleading now. "What did I _do_?"

You want the truth? Here. Take it. "One day…you were with us. And the next, it was like we didn't _exist_."

Grantaire only looked confused by this. Not even confused. Totally unable to understand. A look with too many angry layers for Bahorel's liking but does this at least mean we're done with the heart-to-heart?

Apparently not.

"Oh," Grantaire said very calmly. "I see. That was it, was it?"

"…er…most of it…" That was not a good look. Not at all. That wasn't even a heartbroken look, that was an _explain now or you don't even want to think about what I'll do _look. Oh god, not a good look.

"Oh, what else?" he said lightly.

"Well…we continued not existing."

Grantaire looked away from him, thank _God_, and turned to his fingernails instead like Luc does sometimes to make sure they're all nice and neat. "...wait... I'm having a tiny bit of trouble following this. Was this continuing not to exist before or after that rather pleasant meeting with Enjolras after I was sprung from jail?"

"Oh..uh…" To tell the truth, ami? I don't remember. "Before, I think."

Grantaire suddenly had the dumbfounded look on again. "…for…_what_…two days? Four?"

"I don't remember," Bahorel mumbled.

"So that then is the crux?" Grantaire said, but calmly again and – I can't keep _up_ with you, dammit. "Nothing else?"

"'Fraid so." Yeah. That's about it, and you're making it sound like it's really not all that much…and…well, maybe it might have been, but it seemed pretty dam' bad at the time…you're not saying we didn't have a right to be at least a little bothered, ami?

"All right," Grantaire said quietly, relentlessly. "Let me see if I'm correct. You were _that_ angry with me... because after being rescued from death, prison, oh - and I should add _torture_, I was quite honestly happy to know the men who put themselves on the line to get me out?"

He conceded with a bit of a nod. Oh, _damn_ it Grantaire, I know I was a fool, we were idiots, but – do you have to rub it in so deeply?

But he just kept going. "Maurice helped me break you out. L'aigle joined us both in tracking down that dam' bastard Pilon - who gave me quite the fight - and then Alexandre came with them to get me out. They trusted me. They believed in me. And you might not know it but each of those ribs was a promise that no way in _hell_ would I let them... let any of you young idiots down by opening my mouth." And now Enjolras-like again, and if that isn't the biggest contradiction there ever was – oh god _damn_ it. "...explain _why_ it is so unusual I would be grateful... want to be _friends_ with them? Why perhaps I might be a little caught up with them?"

I can't explain. There's no way, no words, no explanation _there_.

Maybe I should have just left things where they were.

This is what I get for listening to my better side, eh?


	6. Shattered and Made Drunk By Horror

**A/N Happy Easter everyone! Hope you had a lovely lovely holiday. Best wishes all around and all our love!**

Silence. That's what there was, dear god just buckets and buckets of silence like someone had drained the darkest parts of an empty church and poured all that stifling stifling nothing into his house so it stretched between himself and Bahorel in an endless sea. Ha. Grantaire, your metaphors lack something. Sense, most likely.

"I'm certain there's some way this is my fault." he said finally, wanting the silence to end, wanting Bahorel to stop looking at him as though there was something here that he should be getting and wasn't. Of course it's my bloody fault, just - how? How does this add up?

He'd always been foul at math, even at school. Why couldn't the figures get along? Why did four and four have to battle until they became eight? Why was there the subjugation of subtraction, the political union of addition, the slaughter of division and plurality of multiplication? It seemed unfair, structured, impositional. And yet here one and one and one and one were dancing around in his brain worse than snowflakes waltzing a minuet straight towards hell and he was missing the link. "It usually is. Just humour me and help me understand _how_." How does it add up, Bahorel? One and one and one and one? What does that _make?_

_"_No... it's not your fault."

It isn't. But it is. But dear god it isn't. It _isn't. _What the hell did I really do? What was it? Just being a bit distracted a while? I could imagine you yelling at me and calling me a bloody idiot, and hell I wouldn't argue. Dieu all the Pantheon and Valhalla know I'm an idiot. So tell me, Bahorel - what the hell is it. What is it really. Please, please tell me.

"It has to be my fault. You wouldn't have done that without some good reason. Please. You _wouldn't_ have." You're cleverer than that. I'm cleverer than that. We were - you were friends and you could not have ditched me - hell worse than - you didn't just ditch me, Bahorel, you completely... just because of that? No. No, dieu no. Not so easily.

That's terrifying.

"Grantaire..." Bahorel shifted awkwardly, looking guilty and sorry and - not arguing.

You're not arguing, Bahorel, and I'm staring. I'm - ha - I'm just staring now. Like that's going to make you argue, make you tell me what a bloody moron I am to think that you'd do that for no other reason than this. A callous bastard to consider the idea because of course you wouldn't. Like staring as though I've been clubbed over the head by a wet fish will make you admit that it's not this easy to lose my friends.

But Bahorel didn't say anything, he just had this look on his face, an odd in-between look of god-I'm-sorry and no-Grantaire-I'm-not-arguing, no-I'm-not-so-can-we-stop-talking-about-this-now? Ha. Ha, there. There we have it dear children and lovers and swains and tables and - damn you all you know who you are. And damn me all for thinking it could be different. Should just be grateful you apologised, then.

What for, Bahorel? Too much energy to stay angry? He heard some sort of choking noise, and realised it was himself - dear dieu that is embarrassing. He was moving, turning, walking, and he knew where he was going and he didn't really care because you know what? Screw you both, you bastards, I'm angry. What do you want me to say? You want me to say that it's my fault this happened? Oh oui - _yes indeed. _It's the _sot's_ fault for being such a bloody ass that you couldn't bear him any longer, thank you so much for being gracious enough to come and apologise anyway.

Damn me. Damn you. Damn us all to hell and Tartarus and the everlasting fire of cursed affliction - oh and dieu for good measure why not the bloody river in Dante's cheerful little piece? Centaurs and putain Virgil and putain all.

Damn you, Bahorel, you have no right to look as though I'm putain slapping you in _your_ face. This is not my putain fault, not all this. You want it to be me, me, me and then you won't have to feel like this because it's Grantaire the stupid winesack making us angry because he's an insensitive ass who doesn't appreciate the fine friends he has when he has them, and dieu only knows we've no reason to stick by him so why the hell are we bothering?

It hit Grantaire then that there was only one thing missing from this messy beautifully horribly ironic picture, so he opened the cupboard that stood three-legged and stoop-shouldered near his over-full bookshelf and pulled out his one lone last bottle. Sot. Hell did you think you were any good for, anyway? Hell did you think you could stay away from this?

Hell did you try? He took a swig and it was like returning to a familiar and dear lover, and she had him in her arms and was pressing his head against her breast and _dieu_ he could sob for it felt so good. No more worrying about being responsible and careful and the new shiny Grantaire which some people hated and some people kind of liked but no one really understood. No, sot, back where you belong, back in your place where everyone knows you and everyone pities and loves you for showing them how far they could fall.

There was a knock, and he quickly drank again because his mistress knew that he needed it, and she wouldn't ever leave him no matter how much of a stupid sensless sod he was. Aliteration. Ha. Happening a bit quick. "Mind getting that? I'm busy." He could vaguely hear Bahorel move to the door and let someone in, and someone and Bahorel were talking, meaningless phrases about scarves and whether or not he was in and _why am I not drunk yet?_

"I think I... in... and..." bits and pieces flowed together and then stopped abruptly and he looked up over the welcoming lip of the bottle to see Maurice there staring at him with disappointment on his face.

There you go again, Grantaire. Look at that - another person you've let down. Another person you've dragged into your stupid putain litle pity party and just watch how he'll give up on you. They all do. They all putain will.

"Perceval?" Maurice looked between the two walking wounded, and frowned a little, gnawing at his lip. "Bahorel? What's going on?"

What's going on, my very dear dear ami is that you've had your first experience of being let down by a professional. Get used to the taste, it happens a lot around here. He felt sick to his stomach and put the bottle down, ending up somehow sitting on his own tatty torn sofa with his head in his hands so he couldn't see Maurice's expression change. To pity or disgust or god knows what else. "I'm sorry."

"What happened?" Maurice sounded as though he'd been drinking coffee - and he probably had. "You didn't get in a fight again?"

"Bahorel...kindly came to ... apologise. And explain what has been our issue. For the last four weeks." Wait until you hear it, Harlequin, cher. You'll laugh. No, honestly you will. Now I think about it with my lady here at my side it makes so much more sense. Fancy that. I just had to get drunk again to figure it out.

Maurice looked at Bahorel. "And that issue is?"

Grantaire looked up too and hated himself for it. What, sot? Explanation not good enough for you? You want more, do you? Do you think you even deserve it? But dear _god I want it_. Maybe Bahorel could tell Maurice it had been something else - something more - something that made sense.

"It..." Bahorel leaned back against the wall and looked between them slowly. "It's just that suddenly none of you wanted anything to do with me or Luc."

One and one and one and one. He looked at the bottle and laughed a little hollowly under his breath. He'd never been any good at math.


	7. So Changed So Sudden and Unfair

**A/N: An extra update is coming this week as it is quite short and will frame the coming events. Keep an eye out for it!**

Hold on. Hold on, hold on, hold _on,_ _et m'attends gentiment, bien_? I need a moment to catch up.

Just when Maurice thought he'd gotten so sick of being angry that he'd never be able to do it again, he kept finding worse and worse things to be angry _at_. Like – this – _idiot _– here. Well. Both of them really. But mostly Bahorel. God _damn_ it, Bahorel, why do you keep doing this to him and more importantly _how_? And how do we fix it? And...I need to lay off the coffee. At some later point. This is more important. Right now I'm busy trying to comprehend what he just said.

"That was _it_," Maurice said to that same idiot of a Bahorel. He got no answer and Perceval drooped a little lower. "That…was it?"

"Yes. It was," Bahorel said defensively. You've got no right to be on the defensive, you. Not after all this.

"You're a right bastard, you know that?" Joly hissed at him, which errr…in retrospect _possibly_ not the best idea because he's glaring again, and nobody wants to cross Bahorel but…oh hell, let him do what he wants. If he gets offended, so much the worse for _him_. He'll have the whole League on his heels anyway if he keeps this up.

"Yeah."

"I think I should get drunk," Perceval cut in in a _truly_ awful tone. Sort of a singsong gallows tune. Tone. Thing. "Obviously I'm a better friend soused out of my mind."

"Do not _touch_ that bottle," Maurice said very firmly because that is the _last_ thing we want right now, isn't it. Perceval didn't say anything, just looked at him blankly and then at the bottle blankly and then back at him still looking like he'd died inside and gone to hell. "Better all round," Perceval said slowly, as if he hadn't heard Maurice at all.

No – no, no, no, it _isn't_. Joly brushed past Bahorel and took the bottle from Perceval's limp hand. Come on, now. We both know you're better than this – you've shown your good side before and I'm _not_ going to ever let you forget it. You're a man, Perceval, and really a good man too, except you're afraid to try when you don't have a good excuse and a really good mask. Somehow none of this came out of his mouth, though, and what came out was a somewhat shrill but very insistent "You're _not_ going to get drunk."

Perceval blinked back at Maurice once, twice, before something started to wake up behind his eyes again. "Right," he said. "Not going to get drunk."

_Shunk_. Maurice recorked the bottle and stuck it away in the cabinet, which was not a good long-term solution but, for the moment, Quite Good Enough, don't you think? "_Not_."

"Whatever you say, Harlequin," Perceval said quietly, humbly.

"Good." And now Harlequin was messing about in Scaramouche's kitchen, let's see, what's going to be best for him? Hmm. Aha, coffee! Does wonders for _me_, at least in moderation, although, not quite sure about how to go about defining moderation, hmmm, that does smell good. And Daniel doesn't get cross until the fourth cup or so. So one for me, one for Perceval, and one in case it becomes necessary to pretend to like Bahorel sometime in the near future. And now, while the water heats (is it _really_ necessary, or quite safe, to keep matches in between falling-apart books, Perceval?) let's go and see what Scaramouche is making of our dear prodigal traitorous ami, shall we.

Apparently Bahorel was being _idiotic_ again and talking about blame and who should be sorry (supposedly, him rather than Grantaire - and wasn't _that_ the truth!) Hmph. Maurice took the water off the heat and watched the liquid as it percolated instead of listening to them talk. It was less painful.

"Didn't call you ami…didn't dare think you'd want me as an actual _friend_," Perceval was saying hollowly to a disturbed-looking Bahorel when Joly returned. "Didn't want to presume. So…maybe that's what I did wrong, isn't it? I'm…yeah." He shook his head a little. "I don't warm up quickly." He shut his mouth very tight as Maurice slid him his cup of coffee and began to sip at his own, watching him. In all the time he had spent with Grantaire recently, he hadn't seen him like this, so hurt, so…unresponsive. Perceval finally spoke after a long, tense silence, once his expression had finished metamorphosing from blank to tight. "…well now, Harlequin, I've made a right fool of myself, haven't I?"

Mind if I'm honest, ami? You need it. "A bit, but you saved yourself there at the end."

Perceval broke his control to smile a little, fondly. "Or you saved me, as usual."

Maurice shook his head. "Mostly you."

Oh, but you can't bear hearing that, can you? There you go again buttoned back up in the tension of your mind. "I should probably get rid of those dam' bottles," Perceval said tightly. "Apologies to you, Bahorel. Ignore it. Sometimes I talk too much."

"It's nothing," Bahorel said in an uneasy way that indicated he didn't really mean it. Funny thing, _usually_ you could count on Bahorel to say exactly what he meant. For once, it was better this way. "…Grantaire…'m sorry," he said again. "Really."

Somehow Perceval managed to swallow and take a breath around that lump in his tight throat – Maurice could see the muscles straining in his neck. "That's all right," he said finally. Really, though, this is _not_ all right, Perceval, and why are you leading Bahorel to think that it is? You shouldn't be standing for this. Maurice gave Bahorel a look of deep disapproval and watched in satisfaction as he appeared to struggle to bite back some smart remark or other. Perceval continued on with his coffee in silence and suddenly Maurice became aware that his own cup was empty and that unless he wanted to dig for those matches again and risk sending them all up in flames, he should probably just take Bahorel's share (God knows he didn't feel like being friendly to him!), but Perceval beat him to it. "Coffee, Bahorel?"

"Oh…" Bahorel said, as though he weren't sure whether to be grateful for the acknowledgement or reluctant for having to stay on with Joly glaring at him like that. "Sure, thanks."

Maurice continued to look on disapprovingly as Perceval left the room to get the coffee. Just because he _says_ he forgives you is not sufficient reason for me to _actually_ forgive you, you bastard. "You _really_ came to apologize?"

"Yes, I did," Bahorel said, looking a little defensive and annoyed again.

"And you did that already, didn't you?" he said flatly.

"_Yes_, I did," Bahorel repeated and started to look a little angry. Not that I care, do I? No. No, I don't. Not at…dieu, I wish I had a bit more coffee right now! "Look, if you're trying to kick me out, just say so, would you? I'm used to it."

Maurice folded his arms across his chest – oh good, Bahorel, you _can_ take a hint. "Go on, then."

"Fine. I see how it is." In a few rigid movements he had his hat again and was out the door, just as Perceval came back with the coffee.

"He's gone," Maurice said, and with Bahorel leaving he suddenly felt a great deal of confidence falling away along with his anger, because all in all he really hadn't accomplished much besides making Bahorel angry at them _again_. And even though he didn't particularly want to make up with Bahorel right now, they had all been angry with each other for really a _very_ long time already.

"He left?" Perceval said with some surprise. He seemed to relax a little at the revelation, not quite so taut, not under quite so much pressure to keep his mask on.

"He did what he came to do," suddenly he felt a bit awkward about his role in the whole thing because wasn't that Perceval's decision really? But it was – truly – probably – right now – all for the best. "Perceval, you don't need him upsetting you."

"I'm just fine," Perceval said, and – oh, there you go putting your guard up again.

"No, you're not," and Harlequin patted Scaramouche's arm and stole the departed Bahorel's coffee.

"I should be," Grantaire insisted. "He apologized."

Joly frowned. "I don't think an apology is _enough_ for what he did."

"But…ami…"

Joly sipped on the coffee (cold, and possibly bad for his respiration that way) and remembered all the very long conversations they had had over and over again through the last month of Perceval-sleeping-on-the-couch-and-occasionally-refusing-to-be-anything but old-beaten-down-Grantaire. "Were you _listening_ to him at all?" he said in the most Daniel-like tone he could think of.

Perceval's eyes registered a flicker of amusement at the imitation, but he just shrugged. "Yeah – I guess. Didn't he have a point, though?"

"Not _nearly_ enough of one to justify all _that_," Maurice said firmly.

"Maybe." Perceval rubbed his face and collapsed forward onto the table and sighed. "'Mi?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you heading home?"

"Yeah," don't know anywhere else I feel like going after all that, really. A thought popped to the front of his mind suddenly. "Did you want to come?"

Perceval nodded a little. "I don't…think I want to be alone right now." He raised his head and mustered a small sort of smile. "There's far too much wine in the world, and far too little willpower in the heart of Scaramouche."

"Of course, ami." And I really am glad we're amis, whatever we're getting ourselves into. "There's more willpower there than you give yourself credit for."

"Thanks…" Perceval got up and took the coffee out of his hands. "But sometimes I think _you_ give me too much credit. I am, after all, a _redoubtable _drunk." He looked across at Maurice, who merely shrugged (what _am_ I supposed to say to that, ami?), and returned a crooked smile that could mean anything. "Let's not keep Pedrolino waiting."

"Yeah, let's not." Maurice sighed a little over the coffee being poured out the window, but Harlequin buttoned his coat back up and went for his hat anyway – ha, and _there's_ my missing scarf that I came for! Bahorel was sitting on it, the ass.

Let's go _home_, Perceval, and maybe forget how much just went wrong…again.


	8. The Spy and Prison Sheep

**A/N A small update between chapters. :) **

Georges Duval made his way carefully down the street. Carefully because the misadventure he'd had with Carouble last month had left his bad left knee still unhealed. Damn Carouble! Damn aging. And damn the Surete, and damn Eugene "I'll-make-an-honest-man-out-of-you" Vidocq, and damn rules. If there was one thing he hated more than anything, it was rules he hadn't made himself.

Which is why, p'tits, we are going to temporarily forget the niceties of working for the government…ha! We know as well as anyone else that only fools can be caught and held like that, and Carouble is no fool.

For the last few months I've consented to follow your rules, Vidocq, because they're what got me out of my third tour of our fine French prisons. I let you bail me out and you let me work for you. _Police_ work. When I was young I'd rather have killed myself at twenty-eight than end up old and worn-out and working for the putain _gouvernement._ I was handsome and charming and walked off with a thousand purses. I paid the dues that pretty boys pay and ever have paid to their leering elders, and fought my way to the top, to mingle with the elegant by day and skim the slums by night. Those bodies they found when Bonaparte was sinking the piles for the Pont d'Iéna were mine, all four of them. No one crosses me and lives – that's how it's always been, until now. Damn you…no more of this uptight police business. Not if I can do a thing about it.

We're going to do this next bit…_my_ way.


	9. Lost! Utterly Lost!

**A/N: The plot begins to thicken... Sorry for the late update darlings, fanfictionnet was being really stubborn about uploading this.  
**  
The day had trickled by like the slow dripping of sweet wine, and Combeferre was not sure whether it was the burgeoning glimpses of springtime just beginning to dare to show themselves in the highly judgmental fashionable parts of Paris or the fact that it was the last day of lectures for the week which was making him think in bacchanalian metaphor, but there it was. Merci beaucoup, Grantaire, I owe at least the entirety of the annals of Grecian mythology in my mind to your less sober ramblings.

To continue the metaphor, since he never let one dangle, the day being in the mood of a soporific glass of wine heated by a sunbeam who was not paying any attention to the fact that it was really not at all the season for sunbeams _to_ be heating wine - he had decided to forgo his last lecture and drop by Enjolras' apartment instead. The lecture was on a subject which he had already covered in his studies and for once even Eugene Combeferre felt as though if he spent a single moment more in a lecture theatre then him might do something as rash as penning a thesis on the complexity of the human nervous system.

And for once it appeared to be the one day that Augustin Enjolras had decided to go to his classes instead of working on Republican speeches or plans at home.

Irony.

The landlady was a steel-boned, warrior-like woman of about fifty-five who was not quite military-sergeant enough in bearing to make M. Augustin Enjolras eat his dinner if he was not in the mood to do so. Eugene had witnessed several battles on the subject and had always been put in mind of a small angry hen trying to peck at a solemn great stag too caught up in the arborage around him to even notice. Despite these defeats she still took an attentive and frequently irascible interest in the goings on in Enjolras' life and therefore let him into the rooms without an argument but _with_ an excellent commentary on the social petri dish that was the compilation of cats, dogs, children and nosy elderly ladies who wore their hair higher than their noses and their moral sensibilities higher than their necklines.

Ah my friend. Eugene thanked the madame and slid the door closed on her huffing vaguely asthmatic protests and picked up the shirt draped across the back of a chair. Enjolras' apartment reflected his state of mind excellently. The more he had on his mind, especially and specifically to do with the Cause, the more unruly his flat became as other lesser occupations were dropped at the wayside of his mind. It seemed today was a day in which the highways of thought were populated to capacity and beyond.

Combeferre smiled a little and dropped his bags next to the table. Some days it was a joy to walk down that highway with Enjolras, considering the exquisite nobility of the paving-stones and the horizon always touched with sunlight and just out of reach in the distance. He had carried three shirts into the bedroom and was putting them away when he heard the door close.

"Is that you, Enjolras?" They were comfortable enough that Enjolras was not disturbed to come home and find him already in his flat. "I thought you might like to go over that speech with me again."

There was no reply, no further sound even. No firm footstep or grunt of acknowledgement or even exhalation of sigh that _yes_ Combeferre was once again _meddling_ with the accepted order of Things. The hair prickled at the back of Eugene's neck, and he turned, sensing in his chest the sudden tight constriction of prey with the predator's eyes on him.

Behind him stood Pilon, the spy.

"You." He found himself thinking very clearly that this was not the smartest thing he had ever said.

The spy nodded, large thick calloused hands wrapped in a long coil of rope as though this had all been perfectly and meticulously planned out. Which, of course, it probably had. He didn't know why but for a moment or two he had wondered if the spy had appeared on impulse, or through an unintentional summoning of evil _speak of the devil and he shall appear... _"Me," he said, showing either a sense of irony more subtle than truly fit with the brutish features or a lack of imagination.

Combeferre folded his arms, casting around with half his mind to think of where Enjolras might be keeping his pistol these days, while producing some more of this relatively uninspired melodramatic scripting that they both seemed to be following. It took no concentration and it bought time. Win-win. "So. The government dog returns."

Cue dramatic music from the orchestra.

Dieu, Grantaire, I am disposed to hold you responsible for the fact that all our lives seem to spiralling into cheap theatrics.

"Someone's got to chase down the rats taking over the streets," Pilon said with a nasty grin.

This was really too much. "You may not have noticed, Pilon - or whatever your name really is - but the authorities retracted their charges against myself and M. Enjolras. I cannot imagine what business you could have here." Someone had to at least attempt to reintroduce logic into the universe here. Even the government, as corrupt and riddled with injustice as it was should recognise simple A - B - C (hah) logic as this. Two plus two, monsieur. Please tell me they let you learn basic mathematics wherever they cultivate your particular kind of germ.

"I suppose," the spy drawled unconcernedly. "You'll just have to wait and find out."

"I think instead I will be asking you to leave."

"I think instead I'll be staying."

Combeferre had not really expected M. Spy to shrug his shoulders and say 'Oh dieu, really? Well you got me. How can I possibly say no to such a polite request? I'll just pack up my little back of tricks and be on my merry black-hearted-might-possibly-be-planning-on-killing-your-best-friend way. Au'voir and good luck with that little uprising!' However, he hadn't quite expected the sudden lunge forwards or the violence of the attack. He should have. He would think that later. He should have expected it. But he didn't.

He struggled, his glasses falling to the ground and _thank god_ not shattering - but legs being kicked out from under him and his knuckles scraping ineffectually against the solid chin, bruised and split and arms gripped tight, one twisted back and then his chest pressed against the wall and his struggles bubbling beneath the surface but not making any difference just standing there just struggling and breathing and panting and...

And he was tied up. Damn.

Hi head rang a bit from an unlucky blow as the spy put him in a chair as though he were a piece of luggage and leaned against the doorway, grinning. Smug. "Do you know when your friend will be home?"

I'm a doctor, not a fighter. A doctor, I don't _need_ to know how to box, I am not Dominic Bahorel and I have my own uses outside of brawling. So he had always maintained in that space of his head where he did have to explain his inadequacies like any doctor had to diagnose flaws in the gloriously flawed construction that was the human body.

He had always been contented with the diagnosis until today.

"Leave him alone," he growled, hearing murder in his voice and knowing with a sudden terror that if he were not tied down and had possession of a weapon he would make an attempt on this man's life to protect his friend. Good god. What was happening to him?

"Simple question. Answer it."

"I have no idea," Combeferre said as coldly as he knew how. "I was waiting for him. I would assume he has decided to attend his classes and therefore will not be home for some hours." Hopefully he has decided to not attend his classes at all but get caught up with a debate in the Musain... he won't be home until late then. Perhaps not at all. Screw you, you pig, you'll find Augustin Enjolras harder to pin down.

"All right," was the calm reply. "I can wait then."

That wouldn't do. Combeferre wanted nothing more at that moment - besides a gun to point at M Spy - than for this brute of a man to get sick of waiting an leave. Take me with you or leave me behind, I don't give a damn. Just leave. Leave before he remembers he has a speech to write and I have the notes and he comes home to look for them. Dear god, just _leave_. He made another attempt at coolness and did reasonably well considering. "Oh come now, what _would _you want with the pair of us? He's quite a good deal more proficient than myself with his fists."

"I think I can take care of things fairly well," said the spy who obviously had never seen Augustin punch.

"Really now?"

The reply was instant and cold. "Yes."

Before this enthralling conversation could continue any further down the path of well-rehearsed and over-played tropes, there was a noise at the front door and Combeferre heard a familiar voice. "Enjolras?" Jehan. Oh _god_, Jehan!

Pilon made a quick gesture to be silent, eyes narrowed down to slits. _Bastard_. That's frankly _insulting_. As if I would.

"Jehan!" he raised his voice as loud as he could. "Get out of here!"

There was the briefest of brief pauses, and Prouvaire - bless his heart for a literalist with a desire to double-check obvious truths in case they were really not obvious at all but hiding a core of stars and grass stems behind their truth, actually said, "Combeferre?"

Yes - it's me - I'm not a bundle of petals and pearls and sand grains - get... light and pain flashed in front of his eyes and the sounds and colours of the world corkscrewed into a blur.

Concussion, his medical knowledge supplied helpfully.

Go to hell, the rest of him said.

The fog cleared only slowly, and by the time he could lift his head, Pilon was back in the room, looking flushed and furious. Well worth a blow over the head. Jehan had managed to outrun the spy. Well done you, Prouvaire. "He'll tell my friend." Combeferre couldn't help a smile at the thought.

"Figures. Just figures," Pilon hauled him roughly to his feet. "We're getting out of here."

They left. Where the landlady was and how the spy had even gotten in, Combeferre had no idea. All that really mattered was that Prouvaire would warn Enjolras and his friend would not be trapped. Whether or not in the end he could effect a successful rescue was not important. There would be mess and untidiness and thought and the highway - and the highway would lead to the future and not even this connard of a spy could get in the way of the horizon.


	10. I Pass To Worse News

**A/N - And here is the first ever Jehan chapter! The poem is all Jehan's invention, so I hope you enjoy. :)**

_Adoremus - serenity adores her_

_Adoremus - peace nestled in her hair_

_She sends kisses to the earth like swallows_

_Featherlike, whispering, so her name follows_

_to earth in a hunger of yearning for us_

_Our touch, our warmth, our carress, so - like lovers_

_we blend, sharing air, sharing heat. She dying_

_but a little, to melt around us, leaving_

_Swallow wings and softly diamond kisses_

_and those sighing pleading loving whispers_

_We, the hard-hearted, shake off her mantle_

_and like an Ajax or Achilles we hail_

_Her death and killer, Spring, leaving her arms_

_For his caressing, his winsome charms_

_Dancing and laughing while she dies again_

_Gathers up her shattered pieces, to wane _

_Moon-like, hopeful even in timely death_

_That next turn of the world her whispered breath_

_Will win us at last_

_to Adoremus_

_Adoremus_

_and Requiem._

Jehan-Marie put his pencil very carefully down on a patch of grass that was struggling through the thick, cracked surface of the gravestone. He had been on his way to - something. Class, most likely - oh yes, almost definitely class when he had decided to walk through the graveyard and re was the headiest rush of spring perfumes and sights and sounds that he had seen all week - how could he not stop and write something? Even this little - rather poor effort scribbled on the back of his lecture notes... he patted the paper and slipped it into his satchel, running his hands over the cold stone and the damp new gras musingly.

if Enjolras would not find it completely frivolous as a comparison, he would have compared the heavy rigidity of the stone to the government, and this spring-like life cracking and pressing and just _living _its way up and out of the stone into the sunlight was the freedom in the hearts of the people that could never truly be subjugated, no matter how heavy the boot that trod them down.

_Enjolras_. Dieu, he had some names to deliver. He should drop by now that he was irredeemably late to his class. Jehan sighed and picked up his pencil, sticking it behind his ear for proper safe keeping since they always seemed to get irrevocably lost in the depths of his bag. He didn't know what. Perhaps pencils simply were better at escaping bags than they were at escaping from behind ears - or maybe it simply didn't want to hurt his feelings by blatantly abandoning him right before his eyes.

He got up, smiling a little at himself. Nonsense. Nowadays it seemed that everything was coloured with nonsense. People out of storybooks appearing in masks to whisk them away from danger and then disappear completely before they could be thanked. it was almost garish, and in a way Jehan didn't like it at all. There were dreams and there were dreams - some of them were like the dreams that turned into poetry in the borders of his class notes, some of them were like Enjolras' dreams - the kind that would become reality soon. But this strange twisted dream fantasy that M. Scaramouche and his friends were weaving about their lives wasn't healthy - there was too much of the storybook in it, too many big bright colourful pictures like in a child's fairytale where a house always had a chimney and a straw roof, and a church was all stained glass and cross and spire.

While he was charmed by the idea of a fairytale hero stepping out of the pages of his novel and sweeping into reality to right wrongs and save lives and change the fabric of reality into something less like cotton and more like tapestry - M. Scaramouche with his masks and his strange knowledge of their doings and his seeming complete disregard for his own safety seemed to take it a step too far. Jehan knew that you couldn't really afford to mix fantasy and reality when you were dealing with something as important as people's lives - or The People themselves even. Not to this extent. It was - well, it was at least unwise.

At the very least it raised hopes that whenever there was trouble, M. Scaramouche would be able to smooth it all away with a sweep of his magical hand. Maybe he would be for a while, like the sunshine was for a while enough to dry the rain for the streets. But the rain would fall again and sooner or later something would happen which Scaramouche would not be able to fix - or would not even know about, and any faith anyone had in him would be broken into little bits. Rather like shattering a stained glass window - the fact that the glass was coloured and full of pictures somehow made it so much more iredeemably broken.

Better to help men to help themselves than to do all the helping for them and leave them lost and scared when you were gone.

With that thought in mind, he gathered together everything and set off for Enjolras' apartment. At least in some small way he could help to make sure that the people would be able to help themselves with or without a hero from a picturebook.

By the time he was pushing the half-open door a little more ajar, he was actually a tiny bit worried about whether or not this would be enough work to quite explain his frequent absences lately. Schoolwork had been difficult this term and his step-father was insisting he produce slightly better results than a 15 average or he would be recalled to the country for private tutoring. "Enjolras?"

Surely he was home, his door was open. There was a sound of movement and then a voice which was not Enjolras' at all said "Jehan! Get out of here!" and he froze. That sounded like...

"Combeferre?" After all, this was Enjolras' apartment, it wasn't particularly odd of him to be expecting Enjolras to be here and Combeferre to be - well - in his own apartment, was it?

Another noise and then a hulking shape moved into the visible part of Enjolras' rooms... dear god. It was the spy. The door moved open further and Jehan could see behind him Combeferre - just a sliver of him - on a chair. Tied up, by the look of it - and he could stay here and try to fight this man or he could run and warn Enjolras... because if he failed to win then Enjolras would be the next to be captured... It was a choice between his own sense of honor and what was proctical, what was necessary - between Combeferre and all of them.

It was horrible. It even hurt, but he turned and he ran and the man didn't catch him. Feet followed only for half a street before there was nothing but the pounding in his ears and the consciousness that he had left Combeferre behind.

He ran to the Musain and found Enjolras in the back room poring over some notes. "Enjolras..." Jehan paused, hand on his knees, catching the breath that had been ripped out of him.

Enjolras looked up and raised an eyebrow curiously. "Prouvaire."

"Pardon..." at another time he might have almost been awed by how completely calmly Enjolras had taken his rather dramatic entrance. Nothing seemed to shake that calm - except maybe Grantaire sometimes. When he was being very very silly. "I have bad news."

The golden head raised and Enjolras gave him his full, if not particularly worried attention. "What sort of bad news?"

"...I was attempting to visit you at your apartment." it wasn't bad news about a play of hugo's being repressed or a small child who had no shoes this time. Jehan wasn't sure whether he should feel relieved that for once he really had something completely and utterly important to recount, or ashamed that he was the one bringing the news while Combeferre was... Dieu forgive him, who knew where Combeferre was now? "I found - the government spy there, the one Scaramouche revealed to us. I believe it must have been a trap. He had Combeferre with him, tied up. I ran as fast as I could to get here."

"He had _Combeferre." _Enjolras blinked, sitting up very straight and going rather pale all at once. Jehan could only nod slowly, waiting for that horrific truth to sink in with everything that it implied, including the fact that he - Jehan Prouvaire - had left Combeferre behind in danger to carry this message. Finally Enjolras shook his head and murmured "My god."

His breath was coming easier now, so he could be completely absorbed by the terror that he had done the most dreadful thing in his life and now Enjolras - who was the most brilliant person Jehan had ever met - would think him stupid and weak and cowardly and everything else which he probably deserved... "I - thought it more important to warn you..."

Enjolras didn't even seem to hear this. "Tied up... were you seen, Prouvaire?"

"Both of them saw me, Enjolras," he nodded a little. "I was just out on the step. The spy tried to get at me but Combeferre yelled to run and he couldn't catch me."

Enjolras acknowledged this with a dip of his head, running one hand briefly over his face. "Damn it, Eugene..." Enjolras never used Combeferre's first name - or so close to never that Jehan could only remember it happening twice before. "So..." he continued finally in a heavy voice. "You were not followed - otherwise I'm sure we'd both have been arrested by now - and he had Combeferre a prisoner."

All Jehan could do was nod slowly. That, and try to apologise for his stupid mistake in - leaving Combeferre behind, was that even a mistake? No, surely it was a crime. Combeferre was a kind, intelligent, _perceptive _man who was much more use out in the world helping people than - oh dieu, this was terrible. "Enjolras, I'm sorry."

Enjolras looked up and did not have any condemnation in his eyes, which was possibly worse than if he had. "It's not as if you could have accomplished anything alone against him."

Jehan nodded because Enjolras had said so, but doubts flurried in his mind like sharp scathing bits of poetry that would never be written because they were too horrible to translate onto paper. He could have fought, he could have lured the man out of the house and assailed him - trapped him - tripped him - anything. There were too many what ifs. "Can I do anything to help?"

"We need a plan to help him," Enjolras said steadily, looking out into his special part of the distance where he seemed to find all answers to their problems.

Jehan found himself saying it before he could even really think about what he was saying. "We could ask... Harlequin?' because it turned out that he was one of those people who were lost and helpless when the world fell apart and just as quick as anyone else to try to get a prayer in to the masked hero who might be able to make it all better.

"Of couse," Enjolras said after a moment's pause. "Joly can contact Harlequin, who can contact Scaramouche, who has helped us once when we were pitted against this foe and may help us again."

It was true. "I could go ask Joly." Let me do _something_, please.

"You can handle it?" Enjolras asked with mild concern, looking at him as though perhaps this was indeed in question now.

Jehan felt his whole face go pink, he just knew it was. Oh dear, oh dear. Enjolras please don't tell me you've lost all faith in me completely... please. "...yes, of course.

"Good." Enjolras seemed satisfied with this, sighing and crumpling a few of his papers into tight balls. "All right, thank you. Return here when you have your results, please. I don't have anywhere I'm going."

"Of course, Enjolras." He nodded and slipped out and hurried towards Joly's lodgings, barely taking any notice of where he was putting his feet in his determination to be quick and manage this little task at least. Perhaps that would begin to make up for what he had done to poor Combeferre.


	11. Call For Fruitless Help

**A/N - So here's the new update dears! Long week, so I won't write much. :) Just many thanks to all you readers.**

Up to this whole Bahorel issue, the past month had been – well – fairly comfortable. It wasn't terribly hard to stay out of his and Courfeyrac's ways when said Bahorel and Courfeyrac wanted nothing to do with them either. Feuilly had been spending most of his evenings after work at the Gemini's place with the two of them bustling about like an old married couple and Perceval recuperating on the couch, his things accumulating in piles on the floor and coffee table until Alexandre almost believed Maurice was glad to see him pack up and go once Combeferre cleared him to move. Half of Perceval's apartment must have ended up in Joly's living room between the books and papers and odd (and Alexandre meant _odd_) knick-knacks. There was always tea on (if Maurice's coffee intake had been so restricted that he didn't feel it worthwhile to make any at all) and it was warm and pleasantly noisy, with every now and again an outbreak of singing and storytelling and Perceval accompanying on his (very broken) guitar. Maurice had been dispatched once to the theater with nebulous instructions, resulting in them all spending half the night in and out of various costume pieces. Pan Twardowski now wore scarlet beneath his fine dark cloak with its deep pointed hood, while Harlequin opted to run about in so many rags that he almost looked like a scarecrow. Scaramouche was – well, Scaramouche, tight breeches and all. Pedrolino had declared a number of different wigs to be his own, which apparently "made all the difference".

Friendship. Brotherhood. Much less sleep than was strictly healthy to lose, but a damn good time as long as Perceval hadn't fallen into one of his moods and Maurice wasn't dying again. And now…this. Hopefully Perceval wouldn't take this latest fight too harshly, but Alexandre did not have very high hopes. He had come to understand Perceval better now and knew very well how well he took these things.

Someone knocked at the door, possibly Maurice if he'd forgotten his key. Or perhaps Perceval had decided he'd rather not be alone right now, after all. "Please get the door, Pan…" Daniel called from the kitchen, where he was attempting and failing to make something look like dinner (it being a few days before Maurice' allowance came in, money was too tight to go out again. Alexandre's was practically _always_ too tight to go out, so he didn't mind it.)

"Not a problem," he answered, getting up. It had seemed harmless enough to allow his masked alter ego to be nicknamed, but then they had snuck in and simply replaced his surname and even Christian name entirely, and it was "so catchy and such a perfect fit" that he'd had no chance against them. ("You do know it's just like calling me 'Monsieur' all the time?" "It's in Polish. Doesn't count." "It's still odd." …and…so on and so forth.)

It was not Maurice or Perceval at the door, though. It was Jehan Prouvaire, and he – was in _tears_.

This wasn't exactly new or unusual, but Alexandre felt a little shaken anyway. Usually there were either such dramatic sobs or righteous melancholy involved that it was hard to do anything but give the poor boy a drink and a knowing 'there, there', but he could see from Jehan's face that this was _not_ a case of pity for little street children but a real, pressing despair. "Feuilly…" Jehan said, voice breaking over the name, "…I'm sorry…is…Joly in?"

Feuilly opened up the door to let him pass by. "No, he's not, but you can come in – he ought to be back in a bit." Jehan gave a shaky little nod and came in to perch on the couch. "Jehan…" Alexandre ventured to say after he'd shut the door and thought a bit about the look on the poet's face, "…what's _happened_?"

"Something _dreadful_ has happened…and it's my fault…" Prouvaire stared straight at his knees without looking up, blinking tears out of his eyes.

_I am not the man for this job_, Feuilly sighed to himself, but he sat down next to Prouvaire anyway. "It can't have been too terrible…you can tell me."

Jehan let out a wail. "He's in danger and it's all my fault...I left him behind…"

The hair started to stand up a little on the back of Alexandre's neck, not a good sign, but he tried to be gentle. "Who? Just start from the beginning…" He glanced over his shoulder to see that Daniel had joined them, wiping his hands on a towel and looking quite worried.

Jehan pulled himself together enough to speak and seemed to be trying his best to spit out his story without breaking back into sobs. "…I went to Enjolras' apartment…some of the men I've been working with had questions and I wanted his advice. When I got there, that _spy_ was…was there…with Combeferre…and Combeferre warned me to get away. The man was coming at me…and I thought Enjolras…he had to be the target. So I ran. I ran away and found Enjolras. And now Combeferre's probably in _prison_."

It was a good thing Jehan was preoccupied with the floor, because Alexandre knew he was looking very, very unlike his usual self at the moment. Much less skeptical. Much more murderous. "The spy's _back_?" Jehan nodded miserably. "But you went and told Enjolras so that he can do something about it," Alexandre said, looking at Daniel in an attempt to ask, _You _did _hear what I heard, didn't you?_

Jehan did not look convinced that he had done the right thing. "…I should have stayed to help."

"…he's a big homme, P'tit. Not much you could have done," Daniel said, looking back at Alexandre with a look that said, _Every word._

"He would have just caught you too and then Enjolras would never even have had a chance," Alexandre told Jehan. Listen to Combeferre, child. When the man isn't too preoccupied and proud to look past the end of his nose, he knows exactly what he's talking about.

"But I deserted him," Jehan said stubbornly. "We are meant to be brothers in the cause. A brother does not leave a brother behind."

Good _lord_ - he sounded just like Enjolras. Not just his words, that tone, it was like he'd been studying it. The way Maurice and Daniel tended to unconsciously take on each other's mannerisms when quoting each other. "Did _Enjolras_ tell you that?"

Jehan shook his head and looked only more upset at Enjolras being mentioned again. "No…but I feel I have let them both down. And you as well – I'm sorry."

Daniel leaned around Alexandre and patted Jehan on the shoulder gently. "Now, now…what you did was quite right."

"Yes, you did _exactly_ the right thing." Good, would you comfort him? God knows I'm terrible at it. "You didn't desert him at all."

"But – it's _Combeferre!_" Jehan wailed, refusing to be comforted at all. "Our Combeferre…and he's been – _taken_! Why couldn't I do anything for him?"

"You _did_, Jehan, you went and got help for him right away," Daniel said firmly. Alexandre nodded along.

Jehan merely continued to look utterly miserable. "…I wish he'd found me instead. I'm worth a lot less to the Cause than Combeferre."

Aha! Goddamn martyr complex, I think I know where he got _that_. "Now that isn't true," Feuilly told him sharply. "We're all worth just the same and if it _had_ been you, then who would we have in the college of literature, and with an eye in the student journals? You know they don't take to outsiders well. And if your positions had been reversed, Combeferre isn't nearly as good a runner as you and would have been caught right away, and we'd probably all be sitting in prison again at this very moment. No, this was for the best, Jehan."

"Combeferre would be proud of you," Daniel said more gently, going over to sit on Jehan's other side and squeezing his shoulder.

"I'll do anything I can to help get him back," Jehan said earnestly, looking somewhat comforted by Daniel's assertion.

"Did Enjolras say what he was going to do?" Alexandre asked.

"No…I said I thought…well…" Jehan said, blushing a little, "maybe I could ask Joly…and maybe Harlequin would know…I mean…"

"That perhaps Scaramouche could help?" Daniel supplied. Jehan nodded.

"That sounds like a pretty good plan," Alexandre said. _You certainly came to the right people_…

"Indeed it does," Daniel said warmly. Jehan straightened up a little, starting to look less like he might go join a monastery or drown himself in the Seine in compensation for Combeferre's capture. Neither of which were particularly good ideas.

Well, to tell the truth – _none_ of this looked very good. None of it at all.


	12. Desirous In His Heart To Serve A Friend

**A/N - To everyone who has reviewed and not recieved a reply, my apologies. I'm trying to juggle work, family, study and a hundred other things as well as my writing schedule at the moment, so forgive the delays, i will get to you, I promise. :) To La Farfalla - thank you for the fascinating review, I'll reply at length in due course! - Sythar**

They were both very kind, very very kind, and it wasn't so very surprising that Lesgle and Joly had taken to spending so much time with Feuilly. Jehan thought that Joly and Lesgle fit together and created a surfeit of cracks and strengths so that in the end the crack overlaid crack and strength over strength and it was like dew on a spider's web, a beautiful imperfection that worked better together than Jehan thought they could have apart.

Feuilly too - somehow lent more to the pair than he took from them. It was the polarisation, the balancing out of the oposite forces, the gemini alike as twin stars sharing and knowing it seemed sometimes every minute detail of each other. Like once Jehan had seen a flower petal under a glass in Combeferre's rooms, magnified so big and bright and huge that there were crystal-like feathery gems layered over and across and so close to each other like embroidery on air. The gemini were like that, so intercrossed that they made one fabric together. They often seemed to see and know more about each other than those around them, instinctual gut knowledge that was open and honest and simple, while Feuilly saw everything and everyone but showed as ltle of himself as he could. His own self, Jehan suspected, was his most precious comodity and he was loath to give too much out in case he never got it back.

And together they seemed to work. In fact they were working to well that Jehan could not remember the last time in the past month or so that he had seen Joly or Lesgle without Feuilly turning up soon afterwards.

He was musing on this unexpected but beautiful representation of brotherhood when the door opened and Joly himself came in trailing Grantaire. An odd side-note to the friendship between Joly and Laigle and Feuilly was their adoption of Grantaire as a satelite. The drunk had previously spent most of his more sober moments (and really a lot of his less sober moments too) with Bahorel and Courfeyrac, but since appearing to fight with them, he was now attached to the Gemini like a leech.

Jehan frowned - of all the times for Grantaire to intrude! He was so very bad at taking anything seriously at _all_ and this was so very important.

Laigle got up. "Maurice... cher..."

"Oh, hello," Joly looked rather tired, but managed his usual warming smile and nod for Jehan - even if he didn't know yet that really Jehan had made an awful mess of things today, it was nice of him to nod like that. But why couldn't Grantaire go away and not bother them today? Jehan tried giving him a stern look, but not very hopefully. The first time they met he had tried to talk seriously to Grantaire and Grantaire had laughed at him and spoken nothing but half-soused nonsense and refused to take even one thing seriously, not the beauty of science or the complex loveliness of literature nor even the importance of nobility. Enjolras was, of course, quite right about Grantaire. He was a man without faith, and Jehan felt both an ache and a horror for him and of him.

"Joly..." he said as steadily as he could. "I need to talk with you."

Joly widened his eyes in surprise and had to fix his glasses as they attempted to spring off the end of his nose. "What's the matter?"

"It... it's private." Feuilly and Lesgle already knew, of course. But there wasn't any need to involve Grantaire in this - and he had no wish to reveal his faults in front of the man. Luckily GrandR seemed to have sensed in a way which might or might not be traceable to the amount of absinthe he had imbibed (Jehan had a secret suspicion that once enough alcohol was processed by the liver there had to be some reaction which might or might not have created some sort of nascint sixth sense - it was a very silly idea and a very small one and not something he spent much time considering but it would obviously explain how someone as essentially oblivious as Grantaire could sometimes have a moment of insight) and had gone to seat himself on an armchair and started fiddling with items laid out on the coffee table.

"All right," Joly said slowly. "We can go in the kitchen?"

Oh _thank_ you. "Please."

Joly led the way into the kitchen and out of sight of Grantaire and Feuilly and Lesgle. where Jehan could feel a little less stared at and a little more composed now that they were actually doing what he had come there to do. He managed to get the whole story out again, and found somewhat to his surprise that it had become easier on the third telling, though he still felt tearful and upset by the end - imagining all the things that might be happening to poor poor Combeferre.

Joly had been quite wonderful as an audience, listening attentively and making the right horrified noises at the right places. Now he had finished, Joly stared and blinked and said, "Oh dieu, Jehan..." and somehow it all felt even worse than it had before.

"I thought..." he felt a little stupid all of a sudden for thinking that Joly might have access to the elusive Harlequin when none of the rest of them did. "since you... you know Harlequin... you could ask him... you know..."

Joly nodded slowly. "I can try to get in contact with him... not exactly easy but... good god..."

"Do you think he'd let me help?" It was the question that had been burning in his soul since he had started running here. If only they would let him help to prove how much he regretted leaving Combeferre behind. If only he could do something to truly make up for what he'd done. If only Enjolras would believe in him again and Combeferre would be free and everything could maybe be quite all right once more...

But Joly was shaking his head. "I don't know... Scaramouche doesn't like to get anyone involved he doesn't have to..."

Oh. Scaramouche. Jehan found that in focusing on Harlequin so much he had quite forgotten the strange mysterious and elusive figure that had lead both the prison break and the unmasking of the hated spy. "Oh. Oh yes, Scaramouche." The hero who would rather fish for a man than teach him to fish.

"I'll do my best," Joly said carefully, biting his lip and looking worried. "Really I will."

Poor Joly. Now it was up to him, and Jehan knew how hard that could be. "...can I... talk to him?" If at least so that someone could say thank you for everything he had done so far. No one had done that yet. The hero fished and left the nets bursting and walked away while they ate. A strange arrangement and a stranger man.

"I...I'll ask him when I see him," Joly said, misunderstanding a little. "Sometimes he used to just leave messages." Not Harlequin, Joly. No. I want to talk to Scaramouche just once without him turning into smoke or running up onto a roof and out of sight. It's quite annoying in a way that he will not allow the possibility of him being a man as well as a spectre. It leaves the illusion that none of us could aspire to do what he does.

"Oh. I... I guess I understand. Enjolras will want to - see him, you know. I should... I should go." He knew he sounded disappointed, but it had been a very long and horrible day and all he wanted was to make sure that the people they needed would get their message and perhaps that a few words of gratitude got passed on. That was all.

Joly smiled at him weakly and pushed a few things into place on the bench. "Jehan... don't worry. They know what they're doing. They can get him out if anyone can."

No! No, don't you understand? It's not just that! "But I want to _help_!" he burst out all at once. "It... I want... I want to make it up to both of them!"

"I'll tell him that," Joly said sincerely, smiling a little and not - Jehan thought - perhaps in the 'there there, cheer up, it'll pass, Jehan' way people had sometimes.

"Thank you," he said. "I'll go tell Enjolras I've talked with you."

Joly nodded. "Thank you."

And that was it. He nodded to Joly, and then walked out of the room and nodded to Feuilly and Lesgle in the living room. Grantaire appeared to be attempting to assemble something out of the items on the coffee table with no great success, and didn't even look up - not that this particularly mattered. It was all right. Jehan left and started back for the cafe and it really was all right, it really _was, _he told himself firmly. Scaramouche and Harlequin would get word and would come. They had to. Sometimes when you were starving you needed the fish before you could be taught how to cast a net.


	13. A State of the Greatest Wonder

**A/N: Here we are again. And this time things are getting even more complicated! **

Cards, cups, books, text books, paper, pens, broken plate, several other knick knacks... they formed little arrangements in his mind, piling together and falling apart, building on one and then the other, a house - a castle - a revolution. Never build on one man, mes amis. Whether a godlet or a sot - it always leads to rack and ruin. Hypocritical, eh? Well, cheries, I am a sot and a drunkard, a flamboyant nonsensical clown with head above the clouds and heels above his head. You cannot seriously expect a tumbler who see-saws between gutter and stars for his philosophy to be anything but a hypocrite. for one man to place his trust in one man - well, mes amis? That might work, that _might_ be quite acceptible - no, listen please M. Pen, you're not listening - see, it _might_ work if the gods and godesses don't smite me for failing to show the proper respect and all... and I'm losing my train of thought.

The point is that one man could maybe get away with it. But this revolt of theirs - it's a pyramid turned the wrong way up. Sure - oh no, please of _course_ I believe that if anyone _could _it would be him. But... but... just see it, the pyramid, can you see it? Eh? No? well close your eyes and try. Here - I'll show you - an illustration for those who find it difficult to see. First - Apollo. Or Scaramouche. The one man wonder, the miracle, the leader. In this case, my most delightful M. Watch (you aren't actually going, you know, the time is not ten in the morning and you are lying to me) you shall represent said paragon.

And then you, M Cup, Mme novel, M cards - un deux trois quatre and on top - voila - Mlle paper and I let go and what happens? Can the paragon stand?

No.

What am I even saying? I don't even know what I'm even saying. I'm saying that one man can't be the only one supporting something like freedom or liberty or a _dream_ a _league_ of something that wanted to be more than just... a dream... What this particularly sad sort of clown is trying to say, mes enfants, is that someone like Apollo could lead something like a revolution but shouldn't be the one who carries the weight of everything to do with this striving for perfection. And while someone like Apollo could lead a revolution... someone like Scaramouche shouldn't be fooling himself. What are we even doing, eh? Here in this room with rags and tatters, building something a bit more than dreams and hopes and what is it coming to? I _told_ you not to follow me, my friends. Not into the webs of broken pottery and absinthe fumes...

Jehan came and left and he was stacking things in order of size, smallest to largest. Dom and Luc and Maurice and Daniel and Alexandre and Eugene and Augustin and Jehan. And why the hell had Dom left? Why? Hadn't he _said_ he forgave him? He should have - could have... damn, Dominic... you were a right bastard about it. I _asked_ what was wrong, I practically _begged_ you to tell me...

Hell. What a mess.

"Perceval," an annoyed voice demanded from somewhere to his left. "What _are_ you doing?"

"Mmm?" ...what was he doing? He looked and blinked, and there was the Gemni's neat coffee table with everything on it piled up in a neat stack of a tower. Oh. Huh. "I really have no idea."

Harlequin made a noise which sounded like it was considering a career as a snort and came to sit on the chaise next to him. He began setting things to rights, placing everything exaclty _so_ on the table. "I'm supposed," he said energetically. "To tell Harlequin all about it. Any of you fellows know where to find him?"

"Oh he'll be around somewhere," Daniel said with an admirably straight face. "You just need to know where to look."

What did they all know that he didn't? He found himself smiling a little bit. "Why Maurice, whatever do we need Harlequin for now?" What dreams are we up to - and should I bow out?

"Pilon's back," Maurice said then, and removed all thoughts of games, dreams, and bowing out efficiently from his brain. One day Joli was going to be an excellent surgeon.

"Dieu! was that what Prouvaire was on about?" He sat up fast and paid attention. Prouvaire had been upset - more seriously upset than if he'd found a starving orphan or been accosted by a beggar with a heart-rending story. That meant that Pilon had made himself involved in the lives of Les Amis once again.

Who? Courfeyrac? Enjolras? Combeferre? It couldn't be - _couldn't_ be Bahorel. Bahorel had just been with them.

Alexandre answered succinctly and helpfully. "As far as I can tell he was looking for Enjolras but he ended up with Combeferre instead."

Eugene Combeferre. _Eugene_. That. Was. It. "Damned if he did!" He swore, leapt to his feet and began pacing the mottled brown damned rug that the Gemini kept here to cover any spills or marks Daniel had made while sitting on or falling off the couch. Damn. Eugene - damn, no. No. This wasn't a dream - damn it wasn't. Damn if it was hopes or dreams or pretending, this was it again. Here it was, and they were the ones who could fix what had happened. They and no one else and honestly? Honestly - I don't give a damn who you are, I'd bet my life on these men here.

And today they need a clown to become a leader, so Atlas lifts the pyramid for little while.

Daniel had disappeared for the kitchen and Alex was talking, mising to himself like he did sometimes. "I thought they dropped the charges against us?"

"That's what I thought," Daniel, Pedrolino, Lesgle, L'agle, Bossuet called from the kitchen.

"So..." Pan, Alex, Alexandre, Feuilly - thoughtful as always, seeing everything as always. "He'sreally only supposed to be going after us - well, after Scaramouche."

Let's keep it like that, shall we please, Pan? Charges - damn straight they'd dropped the charges. He had paced streets and climbed stairs and called a debt on a debt on a debt, people on people, money earned and owed and bets and favors, old people who didn't like having a drunk in the ranks of those who knew their secrets or how their eyelid twitched when they had a losing hand... it had taken hours stretching into days, weary long ages of trudging and arguing and fighting and fighting and drinking into oblivion the defeats and the wins. "They did." it came out as a snarl. "I made sure they did. This is wrong." I made it _better_. I _fixed_ it. Why do you break everything I fix? _Why?_

Who was he talking to?

Everyone and everything and nothing. He didn't know anymore.

Feuilly/Pan/Alex was frowning and for a span of a moment, he wondered if the frown was for him. Paranoid, too. Dammit, Perceval - you have a brain, now use it! What is going on here? What? "That doesn't make sense," Alex was saying. "Why does he want Enjolras if he's looking for you..."

"I don't know." Joly/Harlequin/Maurice/Joli was tidying his coffee table to a level of impeccable perfection that it had not been in before, buffing off stray wisps of dust with his cuff and placing everything just _so_.

Daniel/Pedrolino/L'aigle returned with coffee and placed four cups on the table for Maurice to then arrange as he saw fit. "I _wish_ I knew."

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. Why don't you know? You, mon cher ami, perceval, are meant to be clever. it's what you pride yourself on, your witticisms and your quips and the double nuances in your speeches and your grades from your glory days, you washed out old drunk, you are _meant_ to be clever... He stopped pacing and made a small noise. Oh. "I'm a fool. I'm an idiot, an imbecile, a moron, a complete..." Maurice jumped and took a quick sip of his coffee, and their eyes met over the rim of a coffee cup - here again. Here's where it started. "It's a trap," Perceval said flatly.

"Oh dieu." Alex paled a little, and - oui, oui - , I can see you've got it.

Daniel was just looking stunned. "A trap... for _us_?"

Yes. Yes Daniel, for us. Us who break men out of prison are not so very popular with the cheerful and so very charming government. Makes me wonder why the hell Enjolras wants to get rid of it, it's practicall Pere Noel. Enjolras. "Does Enjolras know yet?"

"Yeah, Jehan told him." Alexandre was taking things in his stride, still leaning up against the wall and looking thoughtful. Would that we all had your practicality and good sense, my friend.

Well.

What are we going to do about it? He stopped in the middle of the rug and looked at them, his friends, his companions, his saviours. Looking to him - to Scaramouche the clown to come up with a way out of this mess. All right. "Right. We need to get into masks and go find him." And like that he was suddenly utterly furious. "My friends... my dear Harlequin, brave Pedrolino, my clever - my bold Pan Twardowski... here we stand men, simply men. No great threat to peace and justice. No. Not we. And yet this man would go to the lengths of entrapping us through those we hold dear." Oh god, amis. I'm sorry. I think that in a way this is my fault for getting you all involved. You had to break me out, which was my fault. If I'd stopped after... but either way, whoever's fault this is, I'll make it come right again with your help. "La, my friends. I never thought we would become the cause and not the antidote. I have no flights of fancy like those of Enjolras. I do not envision overthrowing governments ot righting the wrongs of the world. When a small antidote like ourselfs becomes the focus of such _stalwarts_ as the police, there is something very wrong in their priorities. I had hoped we would not be needed, not again in such dire circumstances as this. But it appears the fates have chosen for us. Combeferre shall not suffer long for the wasp stings we have given this authority." He brought his fist down hard on the coffee table, barely noticing the way this scattered all the tidy peace that Maurice had uilt up. "I swear it. We will have him saved."

There was a silence then as they looked at him, Maurice not even bothering to look at the mess of his coffee table. And then Alex let out a short breath and nodded decisively. "We're all with you."

"To the _end_, Scaramouche," Daniel added firmly, his face rather flushed.

I know. "Good," he said, feeling as though he'd been given everything in the world. "We need to hurry. Our Enjolras was never the most patient of men. it wouldn't do for him to walk into the hands of Pilon." A general murmur of consent at that, and Daniel started to pull together their costumes from the cupboards, piling each set neatly over the back of the couch. "Pedrolino," Perceval continued then, frowning a little as he tried to opin down each flitting elusive detail. "Bring your pistols. Harlequin - you too, the ones you feel most comfortable with. Pan - you too. I'll return home and fetch my foils and meet you at the cafe."

He nodded, made a gesture with one hand - something like a salute - and left. Sometimes it was time to be Atlas and hold up the world, no matter how impossilbe - simply because if no one does, the world will fall.


	14. Saved From The Flames By Timely Aid

**A/N - Dear all. My very sincere apologies for the late update this week. The thing is - really honestly - I was studying for my exams which were yesterday and was not even home on Monday, having gone to my brother's to get a less cluttered environment to study in. Now that my exams are over, I will have more time to write CS as well as reply to all your reviews. Please do not think that I am not reading them if I don't reply - we love all your reviews and they make a huge impact on us. I've just been a bit cluttered with work and study to manage replying and I apologise. During my weekend I have every intention of replying to every single one - so many thanks and here is a short shapter update awfully late. Forgive us, we're behind in the writing so I can't update twice for you or I would have nothing to put up next monday. **

Clever – bold – fetch my foils?

Nom de Dieu, who _was_ this man?

It was good that Alexandre was used to following madmen because if anyone in this world was mad, it was Perceval. He shook his head a bit as he took the pieces of his disguise from Daniel. "He…he fences?"

"I really shouldn't find _anything_ he does surprising anymore," Daniel said, joining him in the head-shaking.

Maurice gave up his last attempt to put things back in order and started picking through his rags as well. "I think he could tell us he'd been to the moon now and I wouldn't blink."

"Isn't that the truth?" Daniel chuckled. He tossed one mask to Alexandre and one to Maurice. Maurice fumbled his, but Pan Twardowski has lightning reflexes.

"He's a rare man, really," Alexandre said, looking down at the face in his hands. This silly, desperate pretense was the only thing that was, once again, truly about to stand between him and grave danger. Well – and three sets of pistols and a madman with swords. That last thought made him feel better and he fitted the mask over his face and tied it securely before flipping up his hood.

"He is," Pedrolino agreed from behind his mask and under an impossibly orange wig, so orange in fact that he looked like his Harlequin's much taller twin-brother. "Do either of you sometimes wonder…hell…how did I end up doing this?" he asked with a chuckle. "I doubt anyone _else_ could have convinced me to go after th' government with two pistols and a mask."

Harlequin nodded as he put his mask on as well. "I think even _Enjolras_ would've had trouble."

"Oh for sure," Twardowski said. Thank you, Pedrolino, for expressing exactly what I was just thinking.

"That's the funny thing, isn't it?" Pedrolino said, passing around the pistols. "That's the funny thing, isn't it? I always thought Enjolras could make a man willing to do jus' about anything. But I think…with Perceval…it's because he _cares_."

Feuilly gave a thoughtful start. Damning sort of thing to imply about Enjolras, isn't it? But – I really think that's just about the truth. Enjolras is a man of light and fire and he's very dedicated to his ideals and all, and he has lots of grand ideas, and it's just the kind of thing to sweep a man right off his feet and make him rush to the defense of Right and Liberty. There's almost a religious kind of awe in the reverence we give him sometimes. But right now it's Perceval taking a practical interest in the little people.

…besides which, if Enjolras had suggested this everyone would have looked very pointedly at Combeferre and asked more or less politely when the man had last slept and what he was doing out of his bed.

"I think you're right there," he said.

Harlequin, trusty second-in-command, finished his transformation and looked around. "Right. Well…let's go then."

"We'll want to get there before Scaramouche," Pedrolino nodded.

Feuilly saw the scene in his mind of Perceval left alone with Enjolras. It was not a good one. "_That_ we will."


	15. To Render the Thanks of His Heart

**A/N - Love to all. Am recovering from work and exams so i'll keep this brief. :) Look forwards to increasing action in the next few chapters. **

If Eugene were here, he would be prodding Augustin into redirecting the energy produced by his concern into something productive. Since nothing could be done until Scaramouche and company arrived, and a few assorted essay topics were before him, the essays it was. More inheritance law. Enjolras scowled a little at the paper. Why was it that land must always be passed down from weak man to weaker, while those who worked it remained in bondage to him? It was unjust and led to severe abuses of power. The Revolution had meant to change that, but in only thirty years here it had seemingly all been forgotten again. He was about to begin pulling together points to support this argument when someone sneezed down the back of his neck. Enjolras' head snapped up and he saw that Prouvaire had come back up behind him, looking nervous and now apologetic.

"Sorry, Enjolras," the boy whispered.

"It's all right," Enjolras sighed. "_Would_ you mind not hovering over me like that, though?" This was the third time in the thirty minutes since his return that he'd done that.

Prouvaire blushed. "Sorry, Enjolras."

Enjolras waved it off and pulled the subject back to their unlikely rescuers. "You're sure they're going to help?"

"…I…I asked, Enjolras," Prouvaire stammered. "Joly said he'd do his best."

Enjolras made a mental note to have a talk with Joly himself about this whole Scaramouche business. The way the lieutenants of Les Amis seemed to have been fracturing apart lately (they might think he was blind, but he wasn't), it might well have been better that they'd _stayed_ imprisoned and never come to the attention of M. Scaramouche at all. And on the whole they had better things to do than argue about men in masks. "Then we shall hope his best is good enough." Prouvaire nodded along mutely and continued to hover nervously on the other side of the table as Enjolras attempted to recollect his thoughts on the finer points of what happened to aristos' possessions upon their final departures to Hell. Said thoughts were again interrupted by the sound of the door swinging open more quietly than he had ever heard it do - as if some magician had ordered it to remain silent.

"…Harlequin?" Prouvaire piped up, turning his head. Enjolras turned around as well and saw that the lamp normally placed there to illuminate the faces of all who entered had gone – or been blown? – out. Its loss gave up that entire corner to dimness and cast crazed shadows across the entire room.

Out of this shadowy corner emerged, first one and then farther back a second and a third, a mask hovering at the height of a man. "Yes, it's me," a voice came back, and the first mask stepped forward and became a ragged scarecrow, so completely veiled that if the voice (muffled by the mask though it were) were not familiar, Enjolras would not have trusted this man to be the same person as the Harlequin who had aided them before. Prouvaire bounded forward to meet him and shook his hand in some relief.

"Good. Where is Scaramouche?" Enjolras asked, rising to his feet and putting his papers aside.

"We – my partners and I – were just waiting for him," Harlequin said, and motioned his own lieutenants forward. This was new. They introduced themselves - first Pedrolino, taller and broader than his scarecrow friend, then a heavily cloaked Pan…Twardowski? Enjolras believed he may have heard the legend floating around – Polish, wasn't it? Feuilly likely would have known.

"I assumed you and Scaramouche were alone in the venture," Enjolras said as he and Prouvaire shook hands with each in turn.

"No, we thought it best to have more for such a task," Harlequin explained.

"He has a few friends, does Scaramouche," Pedrolino rumbled. Scaramouche himself chose this moment to emerge from the darkness behind them, and Enjolras shifted his attention at once from the nervous Prouvaire and strange companions to the leader before him. The mask was glittering and his hat seemed to have grown in size and blackness, but from the gait and bearing it was undoubtedly the same Scaramouche.

"Ah. M. Scaramouche. We were just waiting on you," Enjolras said, mildly impressed by his appearance.

Scaramouche made a little bow. "M. Enjolras. M. Prouvaire. I am sorry that we meet again in these circumstances."

"The same," Enjolras said. "I assume you have been fully informed?"

"Harlequin has briefed me, yes," Scaramouche replied with a wave of his hand. "I assume the man was hoping to capture your good self, and due to M. Prouvaire's quick thinking, was forced to retreat with one captive instead of two."

"That would seem to be the case." Was it his imagination, or was that framed ever so delicately as a rebuke? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Jehan was blushing, but that could mean anything. He tried to think back to his conversation with Prouvaire. Had he been too harsh on him in his concern for Combeferre?

"Do you have any idea why he might wish to do so, considering your names have been cleared?" Scaramouche inquired.

"One cannot tell with these government dogs; they are not rational in anything else."

"Mm," Scaramouche said somewhat reluctantly. "It occurred to myself and my comrades that considering our efforts in the past on your behalf, this has the makings of a trap."

Enjolras raised his eyebrows in surprise. "That could be possible."

Prouvaire frowned. "They took Combeferre to get to _you_?"

"If he was waiting in _my_ house," Enjolras said, shaking his head, "he was hardly looking for Combeferre. He must have simply been a casualty."

"Quite probably he felt the leader would be the best leverage against myself and my good friends," Scaramouche said.

Enjolras was about to agree with him when he realized something. "How do you know I'm the leader?" It might be explained by the general behavior and conversation while they were first imprisoned. It might be explained by something more sinister. He could not allow himself to be mistaken and duped again.

Scaramouche hesitated. "…hmm. Well, when I tracked down Pilon it seemed quite apparent."

_Seemed_ did it? "He spoke about me, then."

"…Ah no, M'sieur," Scaramouche said lightly. "But when I delivered him it was your good self who gave the orders."

Ah. Of course. "...true. You will, I am sure, forgive my suspicion. After the affair with M. Pilon we have all had to be much more careful."

"Quite understandable. We will do our best to ensure that M. Combeferre is returned to you," Scaramouche replied.

Enjolras nodded. "You are indeed brave men, who know how to serve their country. You have my thanks."

Scaramouche bowed to them and Pedrolino stepped up to his shoulder. "Shall we be going, Scaramouche?"

"Yes, we ought to, before the trail is cold," Harlequin cut in.

"I want to come with you," Prouvaire said a little fiercely. Enjolras smiled a little proudly at such bravery, but Scaramouche merely stared the boy down.

"…I only take my men with me, Prouvaire," he said finally. I thank you for the offer."

"You are certain, Scaramouche, that there is nothing we can do to help?" Enjolras asked.

"Yes, I want to help. Please," Jean Prouvaire said stubbornly.

"I thank you, but no," Scaramouche said very firmly. "I need only the men whom I know I can rely on for all things."

And – well, that made sense, Enjolras decided. It was only what he himself would do under the circumstances, and though it was onerous and a little shameful to be forced to sit by while his friend was in danger, he could hardly expect their rescuer to be making dangerous allowances. "Then I suppose we must be resigned to wait for your news, or summons if you should need us." He hoped very much that he should.

"Believe me, monsieur, we will send for your help the instant we feel it is needed," Scaramouche said. "I promise we will do our best to return your friend to you alive and uninjured." He made another showy leg and popped back up with his arms behind his back. "Merci. Farewell." And then he made his exit, followed by Harlequin and Pedrolino as Twardowski ushered them all out.


	16. Inform the Society In Secret

**A/N Dear all. i am so sorry for the late update. In short - TW is in France and I have been burdened down by the most god-awfully draining days in the world... I have just been so tired, so busy, so insanely out of my mind that this particular chapter refused to come together. I shall try to get the next chapter up expediently, and after that we have one more written by darling TW before she left, but there may be something of a hiatus after that while I wait for her to return.**

**All my thanks to AuroraExecution for giving me the prod I needed to come home from a really horrible day and finish this chapter. Thank you for the review! :) And thanks to everyone else for sticking with us!**

It was said that if you teach a man to fish you feed him for a lifetime. M. Scaramouche appeared not to have any interest in teaching his supplicants how to defend themselves from the winds of chance, and - so to speak - catch their own fish. Jehan sank slowly into a chair, watching the colourful figures - all _four_ of them - walking out of the cafe. Dieu. Four. Where had they all come from? What kind of person decided that they would mask themselves and sweep through the lives of the less fortunate, creating this strange dramatic storybook atmosphere where a person could _and did_ free the oppressed from the oppressors?

A strange person. He did not understand the compunction of this man to rescue and succour and confound - but he could not help admiring him.

Enjolras sighed and sat back down at his table, leafing slowly through the papers gathered there. An expression of frustration was visible on his face - I know how you feel, mon ami. "There must be something we can do for them."

Something - something for them. For the patches and the swords and the strange colorful - they're like fairies coming in and out of reality. He blinked and realised he was staring into space. Oh. Sorry. "Strange men, aren't they? M. Scaramouch, I mean, and his friends." Unnecessary, Jehan, cher. Who else would you be talking about?

"I suppose they are. Masks and secret identities and all," Enjolras looked up at him, face calm and thoughtful "But they're very good men as well - look at all they've done for us."

He nodded earnestly. Oh dieu, yes. I'm not saying they aren't good. I'm sure - strange and surreal as they are - that their motives are good. I can't imagine how they could be otherwise. What are they getting from these adventures of theirs if they don't do it for some higher moral purpose? "Oh yes - they're rather like halberdiers or knights - why do they even seem compelled to help us? Just for the purity of their own ideals? How did they know when we were first in danger? It's strange, yet rather inspiring."

Knights and horses, armour and churches and long elegant line drawings spilling out of a book on a mantle and into M. Scaramouche's head, perhaps. The idea took hold and he found himself composing absently a few scraps of rhyme on the subject.

"Mmm," Enjolras looked thoughtful. "I doubt they would answer if you asked them. I wonder if they have given aid to any others of the Cause?"

How did the flanks of a horse move when charging towards the foe? He tugged a spare sheet of paper towards him (by the look of it, Courfeyrac had been using it to score card games on earlier in the evening) and began putting thoughts down. "I haven't heard anything. Have you, Enjolras?" Stanzas... or perhaps something more prosaic - should the rhyme hit the third or second line?

"I haven't," Enjolras said, beginning to check some papers in his satchel. "But I could ask... Prouvaire! There _is_ a way we can help."

Help? Us? He put the pen down and looked up, eagerly. "How?"

"Even though we may not be able to participate actively, we can get Scaramouche information. Surely someone must know where Combeferre has been taken or what has happened to him." Enjolras was looking deeper into the pockets of his bag, pulling out small cards inscribed with the usual codes for contacts. Dieu - of course. Contacts in most factions, someone would be bound to know who was where, and where the spy might have gone.

A weight lifted slowly off Jehan's chest, and he nodded firmly. "What do you need me to do, Enjolras?"

"See if you can catch them - tell them we can provide contacts. Perhaps we know things they don't."

I'm sure M. Scaramouche would like for it to be believed there is no such thing. "I'll do my best." He nodded and rose, stuffing the piece of paper with the few scrambled lines about horses and knights and the face behind the visor into his pocket out of force of habit. "If I can't find them, shall I go see if Joly knows where they might be?"

Enjolras gave him an appreciative look over the top of his papers. "Yes. Thank you, Prouvaire."

Right. He slipped out into the chilling air for the second time that night, hurrying in the hopes of catching up with their unusual rescuers before they disappeared in puffs of smoke or down into the sewers or floated on small white sailed blue paper boats down the Seinne - perhaps flying a buccaneering flag from the mast. It provided a very poetic picture along with the costumes they had been wearing... sort of Moliere meeting Dumas - with perhaps a very little Hugo.

Smoke, however, seemed to have happened. He was too late for anything but the footfalls of the strange band, but luckily their costumes had drawn attention and so he picked his way through the streets, following after on directions from elderly women and small children, two sorts of people always bound to have noticed the unusual as they were either not old enough to ignore it - or so used to the world that only the very spectacular made them take notice.

Finally he found them in a small back-alley theatrical sort of place covered in paintings and posters, and Jehan found himself feeling suddenly shy. These were creatures of smoke and legend who did not want mere human mortals following them around - and he knew that he would be intruding terribly.

He hesitated a moment near one of the windows,, hearing snatches of conversation only absently as he tried to define the very nature of the barrier they had erected seemingly without even intending it between themselves and the real world. Masks and costumes and sudden secret appearances, and all for why?

"_Surete,"_

_"Figures, doesn't it?"_

_"I mean... putain Surete... that changes things_." Scaramouche was the one speaking there - it was hard to miss the puntuation of his voice - the slight I-don't-care-but-I-do drawl. jehan stopped wondering about masks long enough to wonder about the Surete instead.

"_Why?"_

_"...because they're the Surete. they don't follow the rules the police do."_

There was a pause in which Jehan supposed to himself that everyone was looking blank because apparently only Scaramouche knew absolutely everything in the universe.

"_Does everyone know who the Surete are?"_ Scaramouche asked, and then said, "_Thank you, Pan. The Surete, my friends, have been around since the early 10's. They're plain-clothes. They have no uniforms or precincts and are staffed by ex-convicts and led by one of the more notorious. Vidocq. Very smart, very unconventional."_

_"That... doesn't sound very good for us."_

Harlequin... but...

Jehan frowned to himself. Up until this point he had been consumed by the awkward horror of not wanting to just listen in but not knowing how to interrupt... but... there was something awfully familiar about some of these voices.

"_So... no guards... no prisons. He could be anywhere?"_

_"Anywhere." _Scaramouche's voice was the only one that didn't sound like Jehan could place it - like it was just on the very... tip of his...

"_How are we going to find him if they could be anywhere?"_

_"My dear Harlequin," _M Scaramouche drawled laconically. "_By asking Surete Headquarters on Rue de Cloche Perche, of course."_

_"Just... asking?"_

_"At the _Headquarters?_"_

Jehan blinked at the door, faintly amused that Scaramouche's associates seemed to be echoing his own feelings so very exactly. Surely there was a point which even Scaramouche would not pass?

"_Well, I've always wanted to meet Vidocq in person."_

Apparently not.

"_I really think you're crazy,"_ M. Harlequin - dieu, you sound familiar... you sound exactly like...

"_You've said that before."_

He's not the only one, M. Scaramouche.

"I _think you're crazy _too." Someone else... Pedrolino or Pan or ...

The door slammed open and a figure appeared in a flood of light, nearly stopping Jehan's heart all together. He made a short startled noise and turned to run on sheer instinct of I-really-shouldn't-be-here... but a strong hand grabbed his arm and dragged him back and he couldn't help but go because how could he argue? he had actually spied on them! He had not intended to at all, he really had not, but...

He struggled a little, not liking being manhandled, and there was someone coming over to help and he shoved the man holding him - the hooded srlet man called Pan and scrabbled to free his arm and...

Somehow he ended up with a mask in his hand. And it came off.

"Hey!" Pan stepped back, letting him go and - it wasn't Pan.

Jehan blinked. And blinked again. And thought 'oh, that's why he sounded familiar...' and then... "Feuilly?"

Alexandre Feuilly, loyal lieutenant of Les Amis d'ABC sighed in rather an agravated manner and nodded. "Yes."

"How..." no, don't answer that mon ami... let me see. He looked at the tall curly-headed man and the shorter rag-tag... and knew just from the way they stood. Dieu how had they even missed it before? It was painted into the seams of their bones. "Joly? L'aigle?"

"Yeah..." Harlequin said reluctantly, and Pedrolino sighed and nodded.

Joly... Lesgle... Feuilly. But - who was Scaramouche? Everyone else had been imprisoned when they had been taken, and the voice and theatrics - none of the others were anything like Scaramouche and his strange eccentric heroisms. Jehan looked at him, trying to see the man beneath the mask and drew a blank. "Uh..."

M. Scaramouche laughed and shrugged in an elegant way, lifting one of his gloved hands and taking the extravagent black mask off, to reveal...

Mon Dieu. Mere de dieu.

Grantaire.


	17. It Might Awaken Suspicion

**A/N Dear all - thank you for your patience with us, we're almost through the hardest chapters, I believe and in apology for this late update I'm going to update again on Monday. :) We hope you're still enjoying the story and we love getting feedback so please do comment if you have any thoughts. For those of you who would like to see Capitain Scaramouche performed on stage with puppets, we point you towards YouTube selfxmadexstar's The Amazing Capitain Scaramouche and his Harlequin Court, which was performed at three Bulgarian puppet festivals this June. :D TW and I assisted in advising on the script, but the songs and the music are all due to the amazing creators of this piece of theatre and we are wowed. Utterly wowed.**

Daniel hadn't really been there for any expressions of dawning surprise so far. At least ones that weren't his own. Unless you counted Dom and Luc - but there had been more annoyance and _why did you not tell us you were off doing fun exciting things without bringing us along _there. And perhaps embarrassment seeing as they'd argued for him not being the spy mostly based on 'no, Grantaire hasn't got the skill to do anything like that'. Even Eugene (and God, please let him not have broken ribs like Perceval did... does? did. Like Perceval did, because I'm not sure Maurice would be able to handle the stress of fixing someone who _knows_ how they're meant to be fixed) had really decided that Maurice was telling the truth _out_ of the room. So this made him feel like he had now Experienced All Important Steps Of Being Party To A Secret Identity.

Jehan stared, his eyes wider than - really, Joly, is that medically possible? "Grantaire?"

"The same." Perceval laid his mask across his knee and smiled that long long smile of his as though Jehan didn't sound like he were waiting for the punchline to a particularly bewildering practical joke.

"but... but..." Jehan spluttered a little. "Scaramouche is meant to be the _leader_."

Alexandre, cher Pan, standing to one side and looking a touch sore that his mask had been removed so accidentally, looked up sharply at this. "...that would be because he _is."_

Both he and Maurice nodded. Yes, he is. He even believes it right about now, so please don't distract him or we may never ever get Eugene back. And that's a delicate balance, Jehan.

Jehan, however, did not seem to realise this. "_Grantaire_ is your leader?"

An expression crossed Perceval's face, somewhere between fond exasperation and mild annoyance. Interesting how his priorities would change when he was in Scaramouche's head. He didn't even look hurt, just annoyed as though he had better things to do right now and yes-I'm-very-fond-of-you-and-all-that-but-you-are-right-now-in-my-way.

"Do you have a problem with that?" He asked, trying to convey with his voice the important message of 'yes he is and we like him that way please shut up about it', just as nicely as he could because this was still Jehan and he was liable to at least...

Yes. Blush. Like that. "I just can't... I mean..." and Jehan closed his mouth and looked between them all rather beseechingly.

"All right," Perceval said. "You'll have to leave now, Prouvaire. And I'll ask you to swear out identities will remain secret."

Jehan looked momentarily impressed, as well you might hearing Grantaire say something like that in a commanding sort of voice, but then shook his head earnestly. "But I have to tell Enjolras."

A sound occurred. It was Not A Good or Happy Sound. It was the Sound Of A Man Trying Not To Say Hell No, No, No, Damn No - Never No and No, Do You Hear Me No. "Certainly not," Perceval said.

"I can't keep something like this from him." Jehan had ended up in their centre, looking at them all like a lawyer defending his case, or perhaps something more - a central figure in a montage, the St Just addressing the Third Estate. "He is our Leader. He's your Leader too, you shouldn't be hiding this from him either."

All of which Leaderness was naturally directed at them with the careful and quite excellently managed exclusion of Perceval himself. Daniel sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, watching Joli and Alexandre exchange awkward glances. Well yes, yes he is and yes, yes we follow him but the thing is that he's not always that _good_ at judging character in general and Perceval doesn't want him told for a few reasons, not the least of which is probably that Enjolras places him somewhere slightly above Royalists and below People Who Speak Ill Of Obscure Political Speakers Whom Really Enjolras None Of Us Except Combeferre Have Heard Of And He's Only Heard Of Them Because He Reads Your Books Before You Do.

"Jehan," Alex said with the sigh of a man who was getting a little tired, but also very resigned to being the voice of reason in this wilderness of madmen. "What do you think would happen if we walked up to Enjolras and said, 'Oh, by the way, not only was Grantaire not the spy, he's really Scaramouche?'"

Point! Thank you, Pan. Exactly. Daniel tried to pitch in without sounding like he was trying to metaphorically batter Jehan with - well, metaphors. "Do you think he'll take it well? We're in a delicate situation, mon ami."

"It really isn't as if we haven't thought about this too," Maurice added. And they had. They had discussed it, mostly when Perceval wasn't there to look like a deserted dog who had been scolded for eating festival viands and was now shut out in the snow on Christmas. (What kind of word is viands _anyway_, really?) They had talked about it, they had made their decision and they had their reasons, merci beaucoup, Prouvaire and oui I know you mean well.

"But he's Enjolras!" Jehan looked pained, and - oh ami, really. Open your eyes a little, eh? Enjolras is a wonderful man, but he's not the _only_ wonderful man. "He's the person we're meant to trust! Not _Grantaire_."

Oh come on. "Jehan," and why pray tell am I the one debating here? Unlucky, bald, breaks things? How did that become a sum for 'he must be a good diplomatist'? "Perceval's done a lot for us. We're trying to help Combeferre now, and we can't afford to take the chance that Enjolras might not react well to this."

"But this is wrong..." Prouvaire shook his head, as though he were trying to shake it all off him and go back to before he'd had his head dizzied by the crazy heights Perceval tugged them to.

Maurice sighed. "Don't we have a right to keep ourselves secret?"

"The more people who know," Alex said calmly. "the greater the risk to everyone involved."

"You are part of Les Amis," Jehan argued back, looking quite red in his anger. "You have a duty to him!"

And yes, that's a point. We do, don't we? But Perceval was sitting there, a sleepy expression on his face, fingers linked together in his lap around his mask. "Technically, I'm not," he said.

"_That_," Alex said with a definitive nod, and his specific look that said aha-yes-I-have-that-well-grasped-and-now-I-will-turn-it-against-my-foe. "Is a very good point. He's right, Prouvaire. This is an entirely separate endeavor from Les Amis."

Ohhhhh. Oh that _is_ a good idea. Daniel nodded and tried to look like yes we Always Meant To Say This. "Think about it. We have no obligation to inform Enjolras of everything that happens in out lives outside of Les Amis. The only reason this even impacts him is because we're trying to help you."

"And we _are_ trying to help,_" _Maurice added in a more conciliatory tone.

There was a pause, and little Jehan Prouvaire gave them all a look as though he'd never met them before and didn't know what to think of them. It wasn't at all a nice look to be on the receiving end of, and it became worse when he said quietly and firmly, "I'm not - under any obligation to keep your secret."

"Prouvaire," Perceval said firmly, getting up and dusting himself off with brisk brisk movements. "You're kindly oblige us by keeping what you've learned to yourself. Combeferre's life may depend on it."

They all nodded, and Prouvaire gave them a solemn glare. "...very well. But once this is over I won't consider myself under any obligation to remain silent."

"Fine." A sigh from the Great Patchwork Leader. "Now, my dear Prouvaire what can we do for you that you've taken all this trouble to seek us out?"

"Enjolras wanted me to tell you that he can get you information on where Combeferre is being held through his contacts," Jehan said stiffly, looking not at all pleased at being 'my dear Prouvaire'. Merde. Daniel edged closer to Maurice and laid a hand on his shoulder. What will be left of Les Amis after all this?

Perceval and Alex exchanged one of those telling looks they seemed to be doing so much of these days, and Perceval was the one who spoke. "Please tell him that this would be much appreciated by Scaramouche and his friends."

"I'll do that," Jehan said, drawing himself up with dignity. "I hope you're all ashamed or yourselves."

And because it was _Prouvaire_... he was. For a moment, he really really was. If just because their dear poet had such a look on his face.

"Terribly," Perceval said rather kindly. "Now would you mind, Prouvaire? We have work to do. A man's life may depend on it." And he didn't look ashamed. Perhaps Perceval had enough of being ashamed for doing good things when people only then got upset with him for doing bad things - or rather _really_ because they thought he _had_ done bad things and were prone to jumping to conclusions about him, anyway. He was neither conciliatory nor abrupt, just - _sure_. Perceval. Sure. Dammit, I _know_ I have some sugar here somewhere.

"I'll... go tell him, then," Jehan said - looking a little impressed by this Big Truth, and leaving quietly the way he came.

The door closed and they were left feeling in this atmosphere which had been full of plans and possibilities, a sort of awkward deflated feeling as though they had been riding in Perceval's bubble and someone had pricked it and left them seated precariously on thin air.

"At this rate," Alex said with a sigh, going to sit on the stage once more, "all of Paris is going to know before long."

Perceval snorted. "What does he want from us, I'd like to know?"

"He probably wouldn't condescend to tell us," Joli said, shaking his head and picking awkwardly at the loose threads hanging off his cape. Cher... it's _like_ that for a _reason_.

"He's just... very loyal," and I can understand where he comes from, amis. I can.

Perceval, bless him, agreed. "That he is."

"So... what do we do now?" And I'm changing the subject! Subtlety!

Perceval nodded briskly and efficiently in the way he always would before suggesting something particularly ridiculous. "I need someone to go to the Surete. I'm relatively sure there are those there that would recognise me, otherwise I would go myself."

Sure... these dangerous policemen who aren't? Wolves in dogs' clothing? These ones who are really smart and super good at really _everything_ they do and you want us to wander in and... what? I'd fall apart in a minute - or rather fall _over_ something in a minute... and... No. Not. Maurice.

"I'll go," Alex said calmly. "What do you want me to do?"

The man who had made such a fuss over being the leader simply nodded, as though this was something that happened every day. "Thanks, Alexandre. If you'd be willing, then I think to pretend to be an informer that our Pilon has been in touch with who has some leads on my good self would be the best tack."

"Suppose they ask for the information?"

Am I sitting in a small theatre listening to two apparently relatively sane men discussing how to fool... Right.

"I give you full leave to exercise your prudence in that," Perceval said seriously, using especially long words, Daniel thought, for 'lie your head off'. "Tell a fiction with a sprinkling of truth to make it palatable."

"I'll do my best." Alex looked unsure, but determined.

Perceval nodded and clasped his hand. "Which will, I'm sure, be exactly what I need. Do you feel up to going now?"

"I think so. Probably the sooner the better. Do I need to change my name or anything?"

"I would." Perceval said after a moment's thought. "They're very sharp, you know that. Thanks, ami. Good luck."

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

They said their farewells, and Alex left, and now they were waiting once more, this time with one of their own walking into the lion's den without any guardian angel to stop up their mouths, or any raw meat to distract them.


	18. Considerations Of Present Danger

**A/N - Okay dears, so here's the next chapter and I am very very excited to say that next chapter is written from M. Eugene Vidocq himself's point of view! Hope you all enjoy!**

Alexandre tugged a little at the ill-fitting cap that had been a relatively nice one, with his own initials inside the band, before he'd taken a needle and thread to it half an hour ago. Now it was about half an inch too small around his head and read 'J. B.' in poorly made letters. Joseph Brunel was long out of work and couldn't get a better one. Not with food and rent, and especially rent. Not if he didn't want to be on the street, which he was about to be. Feuilly kept his own set of clothes a lot nicer than the part called for, so he had gritted his teeth and lifted a set of rags from a trash pile before sitting down and neatly mending them into something half like the clothes they _might_ have used to have been. He was fairly sure at least one of the pieces was actually supposed to be worn by a woman. Oh well, at least the smell would be quite enough to keep most anyone from examining him too closely, he thought with an inward sigh. There was grime on his face and in his hair and though he only washed once a week anyway, it was irritating - necessary, but extremely irritating.

These were his thoughts. On the outside he seemed, on the contrary, to be perfectly at ease with himself - but perfectly uneasy about his surroundings: the halls of the office of the Sûreté. Led along them by a man in a smart suit who looked totally unfazed by this stranger, Brunel cowered a little and wrung his hands incessantly (a tic thoughtfully lifted from Maurice). Alexandre was very, very nervous.

He was directed to a lonely door and left alone, upon which he stared down at the doorknob. There was more than likely no turning back once he entered. He hadn't practiced a thing, and he didn't even have a mask over his face – he could only thank God for his nondescript features. He had no backup and no plan, only the clothes on his back and the wits in his head. "This is going to be fun," he muttered to himself, and then Brunel inched the door open as slowly as he could.

There was a desk behind the door, and a man behind the desk who jumped up as though he had just been caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing. "…hello?" he stammered as Brunel closed the door behind himself.

"'Lo…er," Brunel said with an apologetic cough. "I'm looking for – M. Pilon?"

"…Pilon?" the man said, still trying to rearrange his papers guilty. "Pilon? Oh! Right. Pilon. Right. Um…um…he's not here. I'm not – not really the best person to…to talk to about him."

God in heaven, he's worse than Joly after three cups of Grantaire's strong coffee. "I just need to know where he is…told me I could find him here," Brunel said in the lowest and least educated Parisian tone Feuilly could manage. "He gone somewhere?"

"Look…M'sieur…M'sieur…whatever you are," M. Nervous Face blurted, "I can't just tell you. He didn't _say_ we should tell anyone. Duval will find you eventually if he needs you."

Duval? Ahhhh, of course. Mental note number one – Pilon is an alias for Duval. "But it's _important_," Brunel whined. "It's about that fellow Sc…Sc…Shara…aw, damn, you know wha' I mean. Th' damn traitor almost got himself hung las' month for that stuff at th' Prefec'sure."

Nervous Face blinked wide in sudden comprehension. "Oh, _him_? M. Carouble?" He gestured to a nearby chair with a twitch. "In that case, you'd better sit…sit down and tell…tell me all a-about it."

And then Alexandre hit upon a beautiful idea. "But I'm only s'posed to talk to _him_ about it," he said stubbornly before adding with a little wince, "He was…_clear _about that."

Nervous Face frowned. "…oh w-was he? He…" A fierce and almost protective look swept over his face, and Feuilly carefully checked himself so as not to betray his relief at his bait being taken. The man snorted a little through his nose like an exasperated beetle. "…well then. I suppose. But you must…must sit down for a bit. I'll try and – find out where he is for you. Have some coffee. Wine?" he amended. "Something."

"Er – jus' coffee, thanks," Brunel said with relief now visible, and balanced himself on the edge of the chair. M. Nervous Face (there was no better name for him at the moment) began hurrying around the office looking under and over and around things and – was that a franc note? Couldn't be, it was much too large and only printed on…one side…huhhh, what strange things they get up to in the Sûreté – under the _copy_ of the franc note was a pot of coffee which Nervous Face tasted and evidently found to be quite unsuitable for consumption. He buzzed past Brunel, stuck his head out the door and yelled for someone, then came back to the coffee pot and stuck it away in the corner with an embarrassed look on his face. "Oh…oh, I should ask Jules…Jules will know where he is." I see we're back on the subject of our Pilon – I mean Duval – again, then, I suppose. "It _is_ important…isn't it?"

"Oh yeah," Brunel said with a nervous nod.

Nervous Face pulled a long thoughtful face and picked up a pen and sucked on it, muttering to himself. "Hmmm. Well, Geste doesn't know because then I'd know and if Fouche knew, _he'd_ know, and Dabernom…hmmm." Feuilly was still trying to puzzle out all the strange names when Nervous Face went back to the door and yelled something else – calling for Jules, whoever he was? – but came back with coffee and offered it to Brunel. He accepted with a stretched sort of nervous grin (lifted from Perceval, when he was trying not to take his medicine.)

"…I…I – I'm sorry," Nervous Face stammered out with a matching smile, "I need to check with th…with the, th' Mec."

"…Th'Mec?" Brunel said a little stupidly. Feuilly couldn't make it match up.

"The Mec," Nervous Face repeated helpfully. Brunel gave him another stupid I-don't-know-what-you're-saying-but-I-hope-it-doesn't-mean-I'm-getting-any-more-beatings look, but he only got the same nervous smile in response. Brunel shrugged and returned to his coffee while Feuilly began to worry just how far he could carry this façade.

Just then a man came through the door and into Alexandre's peripheral vision, a stoutish sort of nondescript person. "Hey, p'tite," he said loudly. "Dieu, what do you need, ah? It's dam' bad timing with that other case and all. You know how much of a headache the munici…" Brunel turned a bit and M. Bellows spotted him. Bellows made a knowing sort of noise and questioned Nervous Face, "New 'un or a guest?"

"Mec, s-sorry. Homme wants Duval," Nervous Face said apologetically.

Feuilly _knew_ he had seen that face before. Somewhere. Somehow. On a flyer, or in-

_Oh my god. Mère Marie, the game's up_, was the only thought that suddenly fit in his head. M. Bellows was _Vidocq_. Probably one of the only men in Paris better than Scaramouche at doing ridiculous things and getting away with it, _head _of the Sûrète, who understood criminals because he had been one – Alexandre's only chance of leaving this place a free man lay in successfully bluffing the master of bluff himself.

Brunel jumped up to his feet in shock and swept his hat from his dirty head. "Evening, 'sieur." You don't know who this man is standing before you, Joseph, but he appears to be in charge – so respect his authority. And forget that you were ever, ever in your life named Alexandre Feuilly, or had friends in masks, or wore one yourself. Forget that – completely. You are nothing but a sneak informer for a stubborn, violent man named Duval, and you have information for his misshapen ears alone.


	19. A Wise and Elegant Thrift

**A/N - Firstly all, I have good news and apologies. Apologies for the tardy update, in a veritable hailstorm of distractions, I've got a new job and am working the old job simultaneously as finishing assignments. However the new job is much less stressful and TW is back from France so we should both soon be in much better shape to keep the chapters coming steadily. So that's the good news!**

**A disclaimer - I do not own M. Eugene Francois Vidocq. I do, however, highly admire him and I feel he would be amused and pleased by his protrayal here as the very very very clever humanitarian and detective he was. I hope he would at least have found it funny. **

**This chapter is dedicated to Charlie, a fellow researcher and fan of the historical Surete. **

Never let anyone tell you that being M. Le Famous Detective of the most _famous_ and indeed the very greatest agency in the civilised world was easy. Oh no, mes enfants. No no no. It may be all fun and games to be invited to the salons and to have gnan-gnans tip their hats to you if they pass you in the street (all presuming that you are wearing your own face instead of the hundreds you could be wearing instead). It is all very well to be feared by the bad and adulated by the good, but with fame and power comes a price, eh?

Part of the price being that he had a back aches from crawling through the attic of several town-houses suspected of being linked to a powerful gang of chambroillers. Part of that price being having to fight for every putain inch that the city would give because certain darling forces - a la and how we adore our redcoat comrades wiuth their ever so shiny buttons and shoes - dislike having someone clean up what they couldn't fix if all their men had brains and could put one ever so neat shoe in front of the other in a straight line and without tipping off every voleur between Montparnasse and Saint Denis.

In short, M. Vidocq had a headache. He had been fighting with Gisquet over the loan of several key men to his agency from the municipals, as well as extra resources, and Gisquet was being an overbearing fool - as per usual. It might have been Canler getting at him again. Canler, mes amis, could whine like the devil, and hated that convicts were walking around his chere Paris like they had a right to an honest living. Well excuse me, my friend and let me doff my wig and shake my manacles at you. Let my records speak for themselves and if they won't then I'll ignore Fouche and his kind warnings and post a few more banners to the tune of what my wife says always boils down to schoolboy taunts of 'ha ha, i'm the greatest and you can go eat worms'.

Guess what? I _am_ the greatest and you can all, very kindly, go eat worms.

He was distracted by the several reams of paperwork sitting on his desk in regards to New Rooms, New Supplies, and M. Inspector Javert Whom We Are Borrowing Because He Practically Works For Me Anyway, and so only afforded the shabby fellow in the bad cap and clothes a sparing glance. Enough to note that he wasn't a recognised felon and didn't seem to have been in the bagnes. Probably small-time crook from the general uneasiness about him. Definitely a mouchard. "mm. Hello. Evenin'. What you after Duval for, then? What's your name?"

"Joseph Brunel, 'sieur. 've got the information he wanted." M. Brunel seemed about ready to start tugging his forelock and bobbing his head and making the generalised statements so deliciously reminiscent of Vidocq's own country days that he was half tempted to stare at him until he did so. Still the fellow looked positively coed, and knowing Duval's methods enough to be suspicious already, he had mercy and glanced at P'tit Jean for clarification.

"About M. Carouble," P'tit said smartly, always having been as excellent at reading a non-verbal cue as he was at forging.

"Oh..." he laughed and grinned. M. Carouble, truth be told, amused him. Truth be told, he'd found out something about Duval methods after the fact and had found his sympathies lying most definitely with the escapee. Georges, m'boy, I've told you once about your habits, and I don't warn more than once. If you're at it again, be it with your little prisoner of this moment or your man here, then I will end you. That is a promise. "_That_ homme. Oh dieu. Hah. Now there's a man I wouldn't mind talking to s'long as he's on the other side of the bars. So. What do you know?"

Gene was exerting all his considerable charm, and watched as M. Brunel hunched his shoulders up and took on the appearance of a beaten puppy who was looking at a large kindly stranger and begging to be taken home. "Well... he, uh... he said I wasn't to tell anyone else, 'sieur, or I'd give it to you straight, honest I would."

Oh did he now? Gene turned and looked at P'tit, who looked back, his gentle face more than usually grim, and slightly 'I told you so' ish, which was probably P'tit's only flaw. "Did he now?" he asked in his sweetest and most papa-bear-who-is-masquerading-as-Pere-Noel voice. "I'm going to have to talk to him about that. After all, it's not nice of him not to share, is it, P'tit?"

"N-no, Mec," P'tit replied solidly. "It r-really isn't."

Vidocq smiled at M. Brunel disarmingly as possible. "You'd not be wanting to ignore him, now, would you, M. Brunel? I can assure you that there would be no issues M. Duval could have with your telling _me."_

"Oh no sieur," the small fellow winced with a feeling that made Gene's blood boil, and gave him a pleading please-protect-me look that he'd seen before on the little ones when the guards went after them and they were about to fall under the heat and the sun and the dust. "_Never_ ignore _him_ - er... beg pardon for asking but you're _sure_ of that, sieur?"

"_Quite_ sure," Gene said. Quite quite sure.

Apparently his self-confidence worked as more than just an annoyance for the municipals, for M. Brunel nodded and seemed comforted. "Well... he set me on to follow th' man, see?"

Yes. Yes I see. He poured more coffee into the man's mug and perched precariously on the edge of P'tit Jean's desk.

"So I did - thank you, 'sieur," Brunel swigged his coffee hungrily. "And once I found him, I tracked him near 'cross Paris - him and th' three he's got with him. 'Sieur seemed... he seemed awfully interested in finding out who th' other three were..." And his shoulders went all hunched.

'Gene attempted not to sound as angry as he felt, which was manageable. He had practice. "Yes. Naturally that interests all of us."

"So anyway... I followed them far's I could, all the way up to their nest, see? Jus' like he told me to."

Nest. Check Gene looked at his palm with the interest he usually would have directed at a crime scene or an interesting footprint. "What's he paying you?"

"Pardon?" A startled owlish blink which would have been hilarious in any other situation, and Gene immediately filed away to replicate later. "Eh... three francs a day, 'sieur, 'less he's in a good mood and then I get three and a half, and... and extra if I bring him back something good."

Oh really? Gene looked at P'tit and P'tit looked at him. "Oh. I see. How long have you been working with him?" P'tit being, as it were, a very good man and very good at reading minds, nodded and opened his desk drawer.

"Oh... 'bout three weeks? Gets hard t' keep track of the days sometimes." M. Brunel illustrated the difficulty, but lifting his cap to scratch his head as though this stimulation would encourage his memory.

P'tit started counting. "Thirty?"

"Forty," let's round it up, mon ami.

"You're the Mec." Some rummaging, some clinking and then P'tit tossed a small bag at him.

He caught it and tossed it on to M. Brunel. "You're in arrears."

Now _that_ is the expression I live for. That look of total shock and bewilderment. Hah. He grinned as M. Brunel gave a little squeak of surprise and nearly dropped the purse. "I-I-for certain, sieur?"

"Aye." And now, my friend, I'll tell you something. This isn't the first time I've heard back worrying reports on M. Duval. I don't doubt my agents easily, but - in this case what you're telling me is running a little too close with my own suspicions. "Now, I'll let play go to the end of this case, but after you're off the trail of M. Carouble, then I want you working with a different homme of mine if you fancy continuing. Fouche'll take you on."

M. Brunel stared at him. "You're a saint, sieur, God's own saint."

He almost burst out laughing. "Pfft. Not at all." Part devil, part bull, part stubborn donkey and part man - but that part is up for debate. "Right, he's at the Pitie-Salpetiere Hospital. In one of the wards. Be sure you let him know you've talked with me."

"Oh for sure, 'sieur, for sure. Anything you say, bless you," M. Brunel said fervently, his head almost nodding off, he was bobbing it up and down so hard.

Gene flapped his hand. "Get along with you, M. Brunel. Good to meet you. Thanks for your help. have a fine day, and all the rest of it."

His mind was already back at his case and his issues with Gisquet and his problems with fingerprints - _fingerprints _and he barely registered M. Brunel's farewell or P'tit's tsking as he sat down on a semi-wet copy of the franc note.

Sooner or later he would have to go by the hospital himself. But then he never had liked lunatic asylums. Not since being near Bicetre for a while and hearing the mad moaning at night. Never say being the head of the Surete was easy.


	20. I Congratulate You My Brother

**A/N: Can I say 'FINALLY'? Oh my gosh. I have finally left my job. I have finally gotten a few days off! And I have finally finished a chapter! Yay! We have another chapter ready after this so expect another update on Monday. :) **

**Welcome back to HisPrincessHope, who MADE MY DAY at work with all those lovely reviews. We missed you!**

An empty theatre feels lost at the best of times. Like a cabinet of cobwebs and bits of old costumes, smelling of dust and greasepaint and unwashed floors. If you close your eyes and wait then the theatre begins to talk to you of her - and believe me, mes enfants, a theatre is always a lady - not ever a duchess or a countess or a wealthy queen, but a grande dame of love and hate, of rags and riches who can powder her nose in the drawing rooms of society but dance barefoot at a gypsy wedding. She was equal parts whimsy and sorrow, crowned with cobwebs and the dreams of dead men who had spoken in riddle or rhyme or through longwindedness created a story to be spoken aloud by people not even of their own time. She was a thief and a brigand, a lover and a whore, a wife and a mother and a person made up of all those who had ever trod on her boards, taking bits of them and giving herself in return. Here I am, mother - where did you take my good sense? Who are you planning on giving it to for half a sous and a flagon of ale? It's not worth much more, I'd be the first to admit.

Pereceval Grantaire sighed and kicked his heels against the edge of the stage. Someone somewhere had stolen his good sense - the half thimbleful that fate had allowed him on birth, that was. Otherwise how had he let Alexandre walk into the proverbial Lion's Mouth? And while we're on the subject of proverbs, which would the Lion's Mouth be proverbial? The most obvious connection was through the Biblical tale, and that was not a proverb. Really, darlings, does that make any sense? In this case and today and here in this sweet little piece of earth that we are seated on, the Lion's Mouth is a bloody great big one and not proverbial at all, and I - me - Scaramouche, the Captain and Protector of Rags of Dignity - the Head of Foolishness have allowed one of my friends to go stand on the Lion's tongue and invite it - with appropriate seasoning - to swallow.

Much longer and he'd go storm the Surete himself, and to hell with the consequences.

His trian of thought had sped over the details and was considering likely outcomes in lurin detail when the door banged open and none other than Pan Twardowski himself stalked in, leapt up onto the stage and with a sweep of his arm that would have amazed even a Parisian audience, tossed a purse into the midst of Maurice and Daniel with a satisfyingly melodramatic thunking noise. A hello-there-I-am-definitely-more-money-than-most-of-you-have-seen-in-one-place-for-a-while kind of noise.

Alexandre, cher ami... I did ask you to visit the Surete not hold up a bank. Though if you did, I applaud your presense of mind and your modesty. "Dear dieu."

"What in the Name..."

"How much is that?"

The Gemini passed the purse between them, looking from one another to Alexandre and back to the purse and then repeating the process over again. Perceval slid off the edge of the stage and joined them, lifting the purse to weigh it in his hand. Whoever this had belonged to (no offense, Alexandre, mon ami, but we live on the same street practically and I know that people on our side of town don't tend to have Louis d'or just lying around the house in case we wish to pop over to Burgandy for a holiday) was not someone who favored the subtle approach. Most people would have gone for the Franc note, not the gold pieces.

Alexandre laughed. "Forty francs. I was going to use some of it to buy you coffee but then I decided we'd all better split it, if we were going to keep it at all."

"You magician." Perceval placed the purse very carefully back down on the ground, suddenly hugely uncomfortable by the amount in there. No, thank you, I am perfectly used to poverty and I have no idea what I could do with this amount of money. I do not want to think about it so please make it go away like you made it appear possibly from the moon because otherwise I really have no idea what is going on. "How... who...what...?" And give back my words, please.

Daniel grinned. "Pan. You've made him speechless."

"Nom de dieu," Maurice was poking the purse so that it was rather hard to tell whether he was more startled by the money or the current speechlessness of one Perceval Grantaire, and had to be poked in turn by Daniel to bring him back to the subject at hand. Which meant that someone would then have to poke Daniel and then someone else would poke the someone else who...

"Merde," Daniel was saying. "I owe you five sous, Joli."

Alexandre looked up. "What, have you been betting on me?"

"On Scaramouche, more." There was the implied 'on whether anyone would ever manage to make him speechless and dear god, this is a miracle the epic proportions of which would have taken Noah aback even after he saw the rainbow' tacked onto that, and Perceval had to chuckle.

"Oh well that's all right," Alexandre said with a grin that made him look like a very smug cat. which was quite the achievement as cats were already naturally such smug creatures.

Perceval chuckled again and stood up. Mon ami, you are playing the stage magician and intentionally drawing guesses from us. And you are playing it very well. And if you don't answer a few questions soon, I may have to shake you and see if it falls out of your ears. "Pan Twardowski. I demand to know from whence this windfall comes."

"Oh," Alexandre drawled, and dropped to sit on the stage and beam at them delightedly, obviously presenting the very largest rabbit in existance from the tiny chapeau that he had taken from a child's head in the middle of the third row back. "From no great personage. Merely the hands of M. Eugene Vidocq."

...that.

Is.

A.

Big.

Rabbit.

Like any good audience member, the only thing he could think to say was the obvious: "The hell you did!"

"Vidocq?" Daniel echoed, being another good audience member and staring at their magician in awe.

"I did," Alexandre said. "He thinks our Pilon's been shorting me at least a franc a day for three weeks, and that he beats me when he wants to make any kind of point! Oh to be there when he gets hell for that..."

"You... oh god... you didn't..." Maurice was saying, but Perceval barely heard him. There was such a thing as poetic justice in the world after all, and this was the prettiest, most lovely... he could put a wedding dress on it and marry it at the altar if the priest weren't more likely to excommunicate him for trying.

"That is sheer poetry," he breathed, grinning so hard that his cheeks started to hurt. "That is beautiful."

Alexandre nodded, and grinned first at him and then at Daniel who was slapping him probably too hard on the back but right now no one cared. "It was beautiful. Oh it was gorgeous."

"You fooled..." Now everyone, everyone - you all and the masks and the theatre herself. The chairs and the walls and the street and the sky, this is important so listen up. This is the kind of thing that should be plastered on headlines and signboards and those annoying little leaflets that the politicals hand out about reform (apologies, Apollo... I doodle on 'em.). "You fooled Eugene Francois Vidocq."

"You should have been there!" Alexandre punched the air and nearly fell off the stage, delighted and happy and joyful - and having accomplished the impossible just like his namesake, and Perceval marvelled for a moment that Alexandre mean it as 'I wish you could have shared this important thing with me' and not as 'where were you?'.

And his friends were all clapping and laughing and they were doing something. Something really wonderfully important, succeeding. Actually winning. Dear dieu in heaven, may this actually last. he laughed along with them, and took Alexandre by the arm. "What is he like? Terrible?"

"Oh only if you get on the worse side of him." Pan laughed then, as though amused by the familiar way he was referring to one of the most feared detectives in France. "Intimidating," he ammended. "But friendly enough."

"Damn. Well done, Pan," Daniel said, and his twin nodded furiously.

"Agreed. You know now you're never getting out of a single spy mission ever again, don't you?"

"Dieu yes," Perceval added, though not really so sure abut that, mon ami, not if it does these terrible things to my nerves. My poor nerves which yes I actually do have and yes are completely ruined by this exercise and yes I shall wrap you all in wool and box you up one of these days. "Especially with the Surete. If you can fool Vidocq, you can fool anyone." The thing was, though, that Alexandre had been and was amazing, and there was no call to dampen that. Especially looking at the grin he was giving everyone. "So... what's the news?"

"They're in the Pitie-Salpetiere."

"The Pitie-Salpetiere?" Maurice echoed, his tone carrying some of the shocked horror which Perceval himself felt. Dear god, a madhouse. Well isn't that just like a chapter out of a cheap novel?

"Well..." he tried to sound less uncomfortable than he actually felt. "I applaud his sense of the melodramatic. All right. We need to plan this very carefully, then." He paused to stand and begin pacing, one foot in front of the other and wonderful. Very clever. Not a prison we might have plans to, and not a classical place to keep a prisoner because what charge have you arrested him on? But a place with walls and guards and locks and keys and bars nonetheless. Very clever indeed, and we need more than just us in this. If this idea - many thanks Madame Theatre and all your theatrics - is going to work, that is. "Right. We need, much as I hate to admit it, Courfeyrac and Bahorel." And I do hate to admit that, because my very dear friends I know what you'll do and how you can be used and I don't know with them how they'll react or if they'll let me lead them - especially after our latest..

Well, you know. And that could endanger each and every one of us.

Maurice gave him a look that said in plain French 'bon jour m'sieur and howabout you take a few days holiday at this little mental institution we're talking about?' raised eyebrows and all. "Courfeyrac and Bahorel?"

"I need more numbers." He winced a little at Maurice's tone, thanks ami I'd just about forgotten about that little debacle earleir. "I think they'll do so long as they follon instructions. Who wants to go fetch them?"

There was a pause and then Daniel raised his hand and then laughed - as though realising it made him look like a boy at school asking permission from the teacher to use the bathroom. "I'll go."

Best choice too. Person most unlikely to pick a fight and yet big enough to make his point spectacularly. "Thank you, Pedrolino..." he paused and tapped one finger against his nose several times. "You and Pan should know, Bahorel apologised to me."

"After a manner," Maurice added, very grudgingly and cher ami remind me never ever to get on your bad side.

Yes, after a manner and - I was not as gracious as I could have been either. For various reasons. "So no need to be too rough with them, eh Pedrolino?"

There was a moment where the Gemini exchanged glances of I Want To Make People Who Make My Friends Unhappy Feel Unhappy Themselves Can I followed by a nod from Maurice of No He's Right And Anyway He's The Leader So We'd Better Behave. Why thank you, dears.

"I'll play nice then," Daniel said with a grin. "After a manner." And he was gone, and the Theatre continued to spin in the middle of Paris on the way to a lunatic asylum and my friends. My friends. Whatever are we getting into?


	21. In Singular need of Occupation

**A/N: ...what's this? We're updating on time? YES! Yes we are! Long may it continue! xxxx Love you all guys, and thanks for sticking with us! **

Luc Courfeyrac laughed for a moment, seemed to realize what he had just heard, and stopped cold with an incredulous stare. "Sorry, but you just said he did _what_?"

Courfeyrac and Bahorel were in Bahorel's front room, sitting across the domino-strewn table from each other while they shared a bottle of spirits and Dom caught Luc up on everything he'd been missing with this whole…"Scaramouche"…thing. Luc had been about to place his domino when Dom had stupefied him, and he set it aside now to listen.

"He chased me out of there," Dom repeated with a big, wide, is-the-world-goin'-mad-or-what-ami grin.

"Maurice Joly? We _are_ talking about the same Joli, right?" Luc said doubtfully. "Small, nervous, sneezes a lot, never seems to have a mistress?"

Dieu, Luc, that _would_ be your choice to illustrate his general lack of strong stuff. "One and the same. He was scratching his nose and drinking coffee th' whole time, even."

Apparently satisfied, Lucien took up his domino again and laid it down with a host of strong curses, concluding with a fervent 'God damn'. "And the priests'd forgive me that, I've got reason enough for it. Five to me, by the way."

Dom made a note of Luc's points carelessly. "'sonly four, you cheating connard, but I'll give it to you since I'm winning just now."

"No, you're not."

"Am so. Five and ten and twelve and six…"

"Does _not_ make thirty-eight. Connard yourself. Go review your maths, you cheater."

Bahorel yielded good-naturedly enough, crossing through his score and adjusting the number before playing his turn as well. "I'm still ahead by two. –by six, now, that's another four."

"Doesn't matter anyway on account of I've just won. Domino."

"So you have, you sneaky son of a dog."

Luc laughed and swore back at him, but helped him clear away the dominoes all the same. "Oh – speaking of sons of dogs. What happened with Grantaire, 'mi?"

Dom's brow clouded over at the thought. "He…went off on one of his insane tangents. Wouldn't accept my apology."

Luc appeared to be trying his best not to say "I told you so", but he was failing badly because Dom could see it written all over his face. Gee. Thanks, Luc. "Didn't quite work out then, hm?" he said in the closest voice to tactful he ever managed.

In a rare fit of restraint _à l'anglais_, Dom made a face and drawled sarcastically, "Yeah, Luc. You _might_ could say that."

"Give him time, then?" Luc said, leaning over and clapping his friend on the shoulder a little more sympathetically. "He'll probably come around."

"Either that, or he'll just get crazier, oui?" Bahorel shut the domino box and grinned a little. If he was going to be honest, he had to admit that under his frustration he still felt rather bad about Grantaire. Some of it he didn't understand and some of it he…well…_really_ didn't understand, but, in any case, a truly melancholy GrandR made him so uncomfortable that he didn't think he was really fit to sort any of that out. Better to let that League of his take care of that, and not let him loose on Dominic again until Grantaire was quite himself again please.

Courfeyrac hemmed philosophically. "Possibly, eh? At that rate, he's bound to just reach a point of crazy where he comes around anyway."

"I suppose anything's possible after what he and th'others have already pulled on us all." Just at that moment someone knocked on the door and Dom got up to answer it.

"Allo," Daniel Lesgle said with a thin smile.

Dominic smiled back uneasily. "Allo. Er…care to come in?"

"All right," Lesgle said as if he really had better things he could be doing. "Sure."

Dom let him in and closed the door, which Lesgle remained stubbornly in front of with his arms folded coldly. Speak not of the devil, for he may come to carry you away, isn't that right, enfants? Bahorel wasn't much bothered by old Beelzebub, now, but a frowning Eagle…that was still as unsettling as ever.

Luc cleared his throat awkwardly, probably feeling that same speak-of-the-devil air in the room. "L'aigle, hello."

"Hello."

"I…uh…it's…good to see you," Dom said, trying to dispel the tension.

Lesgle raised one now-I-doubt-that-_very_-much eyebrow. "Been a while. I'm here from Scaramouche."

Damn it. Naturally. It couldn't have been anything other than cher Scaramouche to bring him around to visit. "Oh!" Dom said lamely. "Oh. Are you."

"He says he wants the pair of you." Lesgle's gaze flickered from one to the other. "You willing?"

"_Us_?" Dominic and Lucien stared openly at each other.

"He…he wants _us_?" Luc said in shock.

"That's what the man said." The corner of Lesgle's mouth tugged up a little.

"Well, Dieu," Dom said to cover his lack of words, crossing his arms. Luc outdid him with a disdainful "Putain de merde". Was Grantaire really just going to invite them along, no doubt on one of his silly adventures, just like _that_ after everything that had just happened? Ami, just two or three days ago you were arguing with me, calling me an idiot, and refusing to forgive me, and now you want me _and_ Luc here who didn't even try to apologize?

"I don't have all day," Lesgle said impatiently.

"Well I say it's better than doing nothing, right Luc?" Dom said. Better not to get on Lesgle's nerves any more than need be if they were actually being included now.

"Much better," Luc said, carelessly as always. "I'm willing to play any games GrandR's got going."

"Fine, come along, then," Lesgle said. "We've got a lot to do, and neither of you've ever done this before." He paused before the door and turned back to give them both a stern look that made Dom feel like he was about seven years old again and being lectured by the teacher for skiving classes. "You realize you'll need to abide by him. He _is_ the leader."

Dom and Luc looked at each other. "All right," Dom agreed after a pause, and Luc said, "I can do that," with a reluctant nod.

"Good," Lesgle said, and started hustling them out almost before they could grab at their hats. "Come along, come _along._ We're all very busy."

When their bald friend finally stopped hurrying them along the Paris streets, they tried to catch their breaths but were promptly whisked inside a small and ragged theater that looked like it had been standing (or sitting, rather, ha ha, due to extreme old age) since Henri de Navarre – whom, you know, Mother Bahorel liked to call Henri L'Hérétique. It had rather a nice ring, but Dominic never used it himself because he was rather of the opinion that the notion of heresy was a stupid one anyway. Heretics and kings aside, here they were in a tumbledown mess of a theater, and inside it were of course to be found the very dignified M. Scaramouche and the oh so elevated M. Something-Or-Other-Ski. Aside from these high and mighty persons, the room contained a confusion of props and costumes and god knows what, and they appeared to be quite occupied in laughing raucously and throwing things at each other like lovers playing war. Oh, yes, Lesgle, we're all very busy indeed.

Joly was making his way calmly between the two warring countries and appeared to be the only one actually sorting through the heap. Lesgle laughed at the sight and waved to his twin. "Hey, Harlequin! Watch out!"

Joly ducked and a particularly well-aimed crinoline pillow went sailing over his head to instead crown Grantaire, who had been distracted from Feuilly's warfare by Lesgle's shout. "Oof! Ah, Pedrolino. You're back."

"Brought 'em as you asked," Lesgle said, ignoring the uneasiness growing on Luc and Dom's faces. "Hey, now, Pan…leave my Joli alone, eh?" With that, he wandered off to rescue Joly from Feuilly's renewed attacks; Grantaire in his turn bounded up the steps to where Bahorel and Courfeyrac stood and stopped before them with an air of gravitas that would have been ridiculous were it not _en même temps_ so serious.

"Thank you for coming," he said, nodding first to the one of them and then to the other.

"…s'no trouble," Luc said awkwardly. "Nah, none," Dom added, waiting for Grantaire to break character with as much apprehension as Luc seemed to be. Grantaire, however, did _not_ break character one bit and continued on as Scaramouche. At least there was no more of that tearful, pleading tone.

"Well, then," Grantaire continued briskly – equally unsettling as Lesgle frowning, but in a way Dominic almost thought he could get used to. "Let's make a few things clear. Firstly, I asked you here because I have very few resources I can call on and this job will need every useful man I can get. No offense to either of you, but I'm not asking you to join the League here. I need assistance. That's all."

Ah. Conditional association, is that all this was? Perhaps that explained his current coldness. Luc looked surprised by Grantaire's attitude, but then he hadn't been there a few days ago with Joly. "Uh…right," he said with a look that clearly said he'd expected a little bit friendlier of a welcome.

Grantaire ignored this comment and went on with the same sort of stern look that Lesgle had had before. "The basic facts are these: Combeferre's been taken prisoner by the spy who turned us in to the government. It would appear to be a trap for myself and the League, so we are, naturally, going to free him. I'll need the pair of you to listen, follow orders and pay attention."

Combeferre, taken prisoner? A trap, so _naturally_…what? Grantaire had to be mad, absolutely insane…

…and yet…Scaramouche had delivered them all from prison once before, and his little League had delivered Scaramouche from prison all on their own, both times under the noses of this selfsame spy and more professional policemen than their hero here could have shaken his sword at – and on one occasion already they must have subdued the government's man in hand to hand combat. The thing smacked of adventure and anti-government sentiment all around, and really – what could be more interesting, even if it _did_ involve following orders from Capital R?

"Yeah, we can do that," Dom said, looking at Luc.

"…Yeah, I think that won't break anything," Luc said carefully, looking back. "Hey…GrandR…"

Grantaire almost didn't respond to the nickname, and had to turn back from walking away. "…hmm?"

"Just wanted to say…" Luc began awkwardly – Dom knew where this was going immediately. Trust me, ami, just stop there - it won't end well. "…guess I'm sorry about – you know…"

Grantaire waved his hand distractedly. "Not _now_, dieu. Please, not _now_. I'm in no mood for it." Luc went very red, and though Dominic waited for Grantaire to continue, their – leader, now, he supposed – let the matter drop. He supposed that meant they were at _least_ forgiven enough to work with, if not to be friends again. "Again, thank you for coming," Grantaire said, and promptly turned his back on them and left them to go and take Joly aside for some discussion.

Well – ha. We wanted a part in their masked antics, and now we've got one, eh, ami?

Somehow, though, that didn't make him feel any better.


	22. Pause In Fury

**A/N: And we're still on track! It's a miracle! :D So long as nothing horrible happens, this should hopefully continue with updates occuring on Mondays. Thanks to everyone who keeps reviewing us, it's really encouraging. I apologise for not replying as often as I did - my computer changed and this one takes so long to load the review reply screen that it just - is one of those things that I end up forgetting to do as often as I would like. 3 We love you all, though!**

Goethe had said once, that 'We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds; our planet is the mental institution of the universe.' however obviously whoever was in charge of studious medical students on the grand supernatural scheme of things, had decided that Eugene Combeferre could learn equally as much about the mind by visiting a madhouse in physical actuality. Here he sat. Here on a really quite unsanitary creamy-white (or one-time creamy white) bedsheet stretched over a board that felt more like wood than stuffing of any kind. Had a medical authority voted that hard surfaces made the mind any less unstable? And if so, Eugene would like to know what empirical evidence this particular hypothesis was based on. Why a man should be less maddened than the opposite by being placed on hard boards and stuck in draughty cells - and what else could you term them but cells - to be prodded and poked and looked at, was beyond his comprehension.

He would, in actual fact, have enjoyed his stay so far a great deal more if he had been allowed to spend it with the inmates themselves, instead of sitting in a deserted (possibly needing repairs, merci beaucoup cher government for the plentiful upgrades you provide for our sick of body and mind) wing of the asylum and staring, as it were, at M. Duval, spy and particularly unpleasant human being. Eugene had infinite faith in human nature, but not - as surprising as he himself found it - in this particular specimen of human nature.

Perceval. Ah. Grantaire, my friend. So this is the man who did all that damage to you? And - apparently - I am a desperate and dangerous enough creature in his mind that he feels burdened to sit out there like some sort of judicious rat, sleek and small-eyed, watching and twitching, dangerous when cornered, just like any street vermin.

Our planet is the mental institution of the universe indeed, but how sad that harmless creatures should be shut up in these confines while rodents like you roam free.

Eugene sat back and continued reviewing his last class's medical notes over again in his head. "Your ethnoid bone is rather pronounced. Very pronounced. reminiscent of some woodland creatures." His head was still aching from the blow, and all things considered - broken ribs, and Augustin's likely worry, Jehan's fright and his own ruined schedule - the least he could do was share a little joy and pleasantry with M. Weasel-In-Trousers.

So far long words appeared to be the most effective.

The weasel made a sour expression. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"Perhaps," And what a hopeful and lovely thought this was, like the first flames on a christmas pudding. "You have some dormant condition."

"I'm sure you'd love that," Duval said - rather observantly really. "Don't you ever shut up?"

No sir. No, sir, I do not. I am a patriot, sir. My country is my mother and I would gladly give the last moments of my life for her, and you - sir - are putting obstacles in my path and that of my friends, so no. I do not shut up. "Not," Eugene said quite calmly, pushing his glasses up. "So long as it irritates you."

"How do those friends of yours stand you?" Duval said with a groan.

Ha. "I was about to ask you the same thing." But do let's continue this witty banter. It's almost intellectually stimulating.

"I don't have "friends". Less complicated that way."

Eugene paused and ran a calculated eye up and down Duval's stocky, unpleasant frame. Said with such pride, too. Well, some people were too foolish to know that they were being fools, and instead counted folly to be some sort of excellently sharp wisdom. "I wish I could say that surprised me."

"Oh non," Duval scowled suddenly, not improving his appearance in Eugene's opinion. "Nothing ever surprises you, M. Sais-tout."

"When one is surrounded by fools, one must automatically seem wise." I'm not really having to try here. Are you making this easy for me on purpose, M. Weasel-in-Trousers? The name seemed to suit Duval so well that ever since it had occurred to Eugene about two hours ago, he had found himself using it in his head.

M. Trouser-Weasel was glowering and looking cornered and dangerous. "You are really pushing your luck right about now. I'd be quiet if I were you."

And if I were me perhaps I would be aware that since you have not yet charged me with any crime and are keeping me somewhere that is not an actual prison, then perhaps it would not be in your best interests to lay assault on my person. Perhaps. If I were, in fact, so to speak, me. "Much to my delight, you are _not_ me. It is one of those things for which I thank God hourly."

"Really. I think it'd be a _definite_ improvement."

Hah. "Well, it would have the benefit of putting you behind bars." You _are_ trying to make this easy for me. Or trying to prove my point about fools, perhaps.

"Nothing I haven't seen before," Duval said, stretching back and giving him a rather sickeningly smug little smile of superiority.

Oh. That's what sets us apart from the dumb beasts, is it? The ability to be incarcerated?

He cast his gaze up and down the man again. "Again. I remain unsurprised."

Duval looked bored. "You talk like that's a bad thing."

You talk like it is not. Eugne adjusted his glasses and picked thoughtfully at a peeling thread of paint, chosing to willfully misinterpret the 'thing' Duval was refering to. "It would make a refreshing change. I might then be able to shake the feeling that I am in a predictable and trite novel by Sue." And hello blank stare. Oh I am so sorry, I was presuming you actually knew how to read for a moment. Eugene snorted a little and rolled his eyes, and M Illiterate-Weasel-In-Trousers gave a dismissive shrug. Dear. God. In. Heaven. "It makes me curious, m'sieur. How do you function on such a small brain? I imagine a cow would find it a challenge."

"Perhaps, but I am hardly a cow."

"More of a pig, I would have said."

A dangerous look. "Again. If I were you. I would be quiet."

Oh do be my guest, m'sieur. "Now that would explain the odd size of your _nose_," he continued, in a tone of perfect cheer which was really being admirably helped on by the slow flush of irritation rising up Duval's face.

"_Quiet_."

No. "You _do_ seem to have the hygienic sense of a pig too. I hesitate to mention it, but have you heard of soap? It does wonders for the smell."

"I think," Duval said with a scowl, "That would be yourself you're smelling."

Eugene deliberately sniffed one of his sleeves and raised an eyebrow with excessive politeness. "Oh no. It definitely smells like pig."

"Just shut up!"

"If you're going o sit there, could you at least take a bath?" Ah. I'm getting to you.

Duval surged off his chair finally, snarling. Wild animal from teeth to claws to bones. "Shut your muzzle before I shut it for you!"

"Oh yes?" Oh. Well now, sir. Whatever would that look like in a court of law? Unless you are planning for me to disappear strangely and mysteriously after my comrade saw you take me? "Now that would be _brave._"

"Don't give me that! Just be quiet before I..." Whatever threats M Illiterate-And-Pig-Smelling-Like-Weasel-In-Trousers was going to make, died away as Duval caught sight of a broad man taking up most of the doorway and glaring between them with a thunderous expression. "I... bonsoir, Jules, didn't see you there."

"Bonsoir." The new man came stalking, padding along like a lion or a great king cat into the hall, snapping little quick glances to and fro and all but growling. "Getting a little loud, aren't we?"

"P'rhaps a little." And look. In front of the lion, the rat is afraid. Duval backed up and stuck his hands in his pockets. "It can happen when an homme's stuck with this guy sniping at him for hours on end..." and her one hand was removed from a pocket and waved at Eugene as though upon his shoulders could rest all the troubles and woes of the world.

Well then, Pandora, don't open the casket, hmm?

Perceval, I will need to have a talk to you about this infestation you have planted in my mind.

And who, as a new thought to tack on the end of this long string, are you - M. Jules? A bigger and more powerful man than my weasely friend, obviously. Eugene sat back and held his peace and prepared to pay attention.


	23. Authority Showed Some Disorder

Georges Duval was struck with the thought that there were not curses blasphemous enough to express the situation he had just got into. Here he was, with a warning already about how M. Prissy-Trousers Vidocq wanted the prisoners and witnesses handled, dealing out this idiot his due, and now here in the middle of it was Prissy-Trousers himself. François Vidocq, M. Roi-du-Monde-Criminel – alias Jules to his agents, or just le Mec (that is to say in plain French, God). The boss. He began mentally improving upon a few favorite blasphemies until they were unholy enough to really fit the amount of trouble he was headed for.

Jules looked about ready to explode at him. "If you can't handle it, then get someone else to watch him. You know my feelings on the subject."

To summarize, then, mômes: Vidocq had come to visit, and he was angry, and that was bad news. Duval's usual options in such situations were fight, flight, and appeasement. Flight was out of the question - Duval's back was against the wall here - and he wasn't going to fight with the goddamned _Mec_ anyway. Nobody fought with the Mec. _That_ was putain suicidal. So what was left but to appease?

Accordingly, Duval chose to cower before his superior. "It's my case and I wouldn't want to distract anyone else..."

"Oh aye," Jules said, folding his arms, his voice getting more dangerous, putain. "Your case, your ways - to a point, Georges. Only to a point. Might I _ask,_ on point of interest what the going rate for mouchards is these days?"

Now he was confused. The hell did that have to do with anything? "Four, five francs a day, isn't it?"

"That's what I thought. So what's _your_ mouchard doing coming into _my_ offices looking for you and telling _me_ he's getting three?" Duval opened his mouth to protest that he'd done nothing of the sort, but Vidocq cut him off with a growl and kept going. "I know the case is getting to you, but I'll be _damned_ if I'll let you rough up the mouchards. I've _told_ you about this. And I'll not be saying it again, do you _hear_ me?"

That, that was too putain much. "Roughing up the – hell if I'd do that, I'm not an idiot!"

"That's what I thought," Jules glared. "Explain it to me, then, _Georges_, if you are _not_ an idiot, what's the problem with this man of yours?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Jules."

"Don't give me that. I'm no Leige to be fooled so easy."

"I'm not trying to fool you or anybody," Duval snapped back as the animal instinct to bite back got the better of his fear. "Who the hell was it came into your office?"

"A M. Joseph Brunel," Jules said bitingly. "Smallish dark fellow."

Duval stopped and tried to recall the name from his memory, failing. "Brunel…I've never even worked with a Brunel…"

Jules frowned. "He knew all about th' dam' case. Said he had some news for you on M. Carouble."

And that was putain impossible. "Nobody even _knows_ about the case outside of you and me and the others, dammit!"

Jules got quiet. "Then by all that's holy, Georges, who came into the office today looking for you?"

Damn good question. Who could know about the case? Well, _he_ knew. Jules knew. The other agents knew, of course, but they wouldn't talk about it. Would they? Even if they did, that didn't explain why a stranger seemed to know everything about Carouble and why he'd want to know where Duval was. The only reason to be looking for Duval…well, there were a number of people out to get him, yeah, but not so bad as they'd go through the offices and risk their own liberty. So the only reason to be looking for Duval was to be looking for his caged bird. But the only people who knew he'd taken the prisoner were the republican boys they'd picked up at the start of this, who he had been hoping would pass the message along to Carouble and his infernal…accomplices…oh damn. He swore aloud, turning to look at his prisoner – still blank-faced as ever, damn him – and then back to Jules. "Smallish you said?"

Jules nodded. "Smallish. Dark. Black hair and eyes."

Duval had put together rudimentary physical descriptions from his experiences and inquiries. Scaramouche was rather dark, but nothing to be called smallish. The right-hand man Harlequin was too tall to shorten himself that much and so out of the question as well. The other one Pedrolino _was_ a very small man, but white as a ghost. But the last, the Pole…he was small, short, and dark. One of the witnesses he'd charmed into talking had even called him _ferret-like_…oh the clever bastard. "And you…and he just…"

Jules looked to have the same conclusions, and laughed. "Oh dear _dieu_."

"That brazen…" Oh, when I get my hands on him…I'll have to have something good for that little ferret. Yes – the bastinado. He can have the bastinado for his sneaking troubles. "You didn't tell him where I _was_, did you?"

Jules shook his head. "I'm afraid so. These boys must _really_ dislike you, Georges."

"Can't imagine _why_," he said, simmering still but less afraid for his own skin.

"Well," Vidocq said seriously. "There's no helping it. They know where you are, so they've got an advantage. You need any more men?"

Men? No. He needed to handle this alone, without witnesses. "I've got my guards already - I think I can take them."

"If you're sure," Jules said, and patted his shoulder genially. "My apologies for before."

Well, isn't that nice? _Apologies_ from old man Vidocq. _Wipe that smirk off your face, little bird_, he thought to the boy in his cage. Duval's smile, still, had a bit more relief in it than his pride quite liked. "Aah…if I'd actually done it I'd've probably deserved it."

"Oh you would have." Jules smiled, all dangerous amicability. "Let me know if you need anything. We do want our friend Carouble back."

"I'll get him back for you," Duval said fiercely.

"I'm sure you will," Jules said, like a rich man patting his bulldog on the head. He waved and took his leave, leaving Duval to continue simmering in a cell with Sais-Tout here, who was now smirking through the bars of his cell. He _longed_ to give that smug bastard a well-earned smack, but who knew whether the Mec was lingering out in the hall? Putain busybody. He settled for throwing himself back into his chair and glaring angrily at the boy, who merely smiled pleasantly and lay back on his pallet. Well. Must be nice to have so few worries in the world, ouais? Duval began to brood on what he could do to compensate for his position being compromised. He had to somehow up the ante and catch Carouble off his guard, since the traitor would now think himself well-informed. Moving would gain him nothing; he would simply have to alter his plans. If Carouble was so determined to meet him here, then meet him here he should, but he was determined to have the upper hand.

No matter what it took…

**A/N: Argot lesson of the week: **_**Mômes**_** is of course argot for children and **_**mouchard**_** a term for a police informer. And, no, I didn't get my boys backwards; our dear spy has merely been fed some bad information. Important? Perhaps…-Love, TW **

**((PS: Since Sythar generally takes care of replying to reviews, you guys don't hear from me much, so let me just take this opportunity to tell you how amazing each and every one of you is. Even if you just read and don't review, that makes my day. I love you all and to all our reviewers, you are especially awesome. 3 Thanks for sticking with us for nearly a year and a half, and hopefully still enjoying!))**


	24. The Innocent Man Thus Doomed

**A/N - Greetings to you all! Several points: Firstly, welcome to Mam'zelle Combeferre, one of our latest reviewers who is bravely making her way through the whole story at the moment. Secondly - we have a little extra update of a side story for your amusement as a thank you for being so patient with us (especially me, I'm going to start replying again to reviews now and I'm so sorry for the long silence) and sticking with us for such a long time. Thirdly, there is a project in the works hopefully which will be very exciting indeed, which we hope to reveal to you pretty soon, so all our love! -Sythar**

Duval was not generally a very adaptable man, but desperate times were calling for desperate measures. He had not thought that Scaramouche would be in a position to actually come after the hostage, which made things much, much touchier for him. If there was too much attention brought to his flimsy pretext…all his plans had depended on being able to quietly release the boy after Scaramouche gave himself up, declaring it to have been a tip-off gone awry or claiming that he was one of the traitor's accomplices, turned fugitive. But now he had to have better ammunition in his magazine. He exchanged coat for smock and left his songbird under tight guard, skipping out quickly to pick up the revolutionaries' trail again.

Much to his delight, he hit upon the precise two he had hoped to find almost immediately. _Les blonds._ The leader Enjolras strode ahead boldly, while the pretty rabbit who had recently escaped him trailed along behind him in a slump. Duval waited for them to pass, then casually lifted a bag of flour from a nearby cart and followed after them like any miller's man on an innocent errand. Soon he was close enough to pick up their voices – imprudent children. He could not make out the details, but Enjolras was consulting a list and they seemed to be making plans to visit some revolutionary friends who could help Scaramouche free the prisoner. Aiding and abetting a traitor – he made a mental note of it. He would need to get that list as evidence in case Gene decided to look into his affairs too closely.

They were too absorbed and the street was too noisy for them to pick out his footsteps behind them, and so it was easy enough to catch them off their guard. They soon came to pass a convenient dead-end – he tossed the sack behind him and in an instant grabbed Prouvaire and used his body to force Enjolras into the alley as well. His friend trapped between himself and his target, Enjolras (the more dangerous) had little room to fight. Prouvaire tried to punch and kick him, but Duval was pressing too close and they were all against the back wall in a moment.

"Prouvaire, out of the way!" Enjolras snapped, still trying to get around the boy in the middle. Prouvaire moved to obey but Duval shoved him back and started pushing them both along the wall to the ground. "He'll be out of the way soon enough, joli."

"Let us go! Prouvaire –"

"I'm _trying_ – "

_Snap_.

"Trying's no good – you won't save him this time either, little rabbit," Duval grinned, triumphant with both boys pinned in the dirt and Enjolras safely in bracelets.

"This time I'm not running anywhere without him," Prouvaire said fiercely.

Duval saw him getting ready to spit and turned him loose with a smack, keeping Enjolras well pinned. "You will." He was ready when his captive tried to pull loose and the rabbit jumped right back and attempted to box his ears – really, boys? You thought I wasn't expecting exactly that? He shifted his center of balance back toward Enjolras and down he went again, while a backhand swipe sent Prouvaire reeling across the alley. He quickly unsheathed his knife and laid the blade against Enjolras' neck, arresting them both in their tracks. Don't mess with the professionals, petits.

"You are a despicable coward," the child under his knife hissed.

"And 'you should have killed me when you had the chance' – I hear this fairly often, you know." He smirked up at Prouvaire, white and trembling only meters away. "You're all just so predictable…"

They remained in silence a few moments while Duval let them both stew in their emotions. Their options were few, of course, and their only hope to keep the leader alive– and doubtless Rabbit, too, who probably had every intention of sacrificing himself as well – was to capitulate. Enjolras didn't take long to realize this. "What do you want?"

Wouldn't you like to know? "You are going to be my leverage against Scaramouche...and Rabbit, there, is going to be my messenger to him." He gave Prouvaire a pointed warning look. "Scaramouche must go and turn himself in. He knows where. If not, at the end of three days…he won't really have any reason to. Understood?"

Prouvaire got whiter and whiter as he stared at the thin line of blood drawn across his chief's neck, but Enjolras gave the warning cut absolutely no notice. "I am ready and willing to die for the sake of my brothers - I would far rather give my own life than allow such a friend of the people to be trapped in this underhanded and illegal manner." Regular little martyr, this one.

"Wouldn't I do just as well?" Prouvaire said steadily.

"No," Duval said with a calculatedly dreadful smile. "And besides, you're the best at running, aren't you?" Prouvaire flinched delightfully – oh, guilt, is there any heart you can't make squirm? It never got old to him.

"Go on, Prouvaire," Enjolras said. "I don't trust this man not to pursue Scaramouche directly if we don't warn him of the danger."

"I'll…tell him…" Prouvaire said, edging away with a perfectly delicious look of despair. "I'm _sorry_!"

A wicked idea struck Duval and he hoisted Enjolras up bodily with a sinister grin. "Yes, go on, Rabbit! Don't let your friends die in vain." The boy nearly burst into horrified tears as he scampered off clumsily, and Duval chuckled as Enjolras tried and failed to break out of his grip and follow.

"I am an innocent citizen, and I hope you realize that you can't possibly think to go unpunished for this," he said with a cold glare when he finally realized his case was hopeless.

"I wouldn't count on it if I were you, p'tit." Duval fished around in Enjolras' pocket and drew out the paper he had been showing to Prouvaire – "Mhm. These are very dangerous men for a boy in custody such as yourself to know, m'sieur Enjolras, especially when you've been overheard planning to give succor to a known traitor."

"I doubt the courts would find you the most satisfactory witness with all this talk of provocateurs flying about," Enjolras said coldly as Duval threw a blanket around his shoulders to hide the cuffs. "One way or another I shall either be liberated or perish honorably in the service of –"

"Yes, yes, just shut your mouth, child, or I'll stab you in the back and won't be worth a thing to anyone's ideals." Dieu damn him...this one was going to be worse than the bird he had already.


	25. An Innocent Prisoner in Danger

**A/N Thank you so much for being patient, a translation of Eugene's speech is at the bottom of the page. ^_^ Love to you all, and hopefully the next update will be on time. **

Passing the time was a chore in this place, seeing as M. I-Have-No-Brains,-I'm-Only-A-Weasel-In-Trousers wouldn't let him have paper _or_ books, so Eugene was currently seeing how long a stretch of insults he could put together for his friendly and cheerful companion. A bastard; a weasel; an illiterate buffoon; a cowardly, cruel, uneducated, mercenary, government swine, macrocephalous, filthy, intellectually stunted criminal; a somnambulistic, pathological moron, a beribono, gangrenous, trichina infested batteur; with a nasum rhinocerotis; a complete tromperie, inimica fidei, hostis pudigitiae, who is completely and utterly in the shape of a branque, a zymotic raboin, belier, and homo et humanitatis expers et vitae communis ignarus...

And a man who simply could not whistle in key, case in point - ear-splitting and probably damaging noise coming down the hallway. Corridor. Whatever the technical name _is_ for a _passage_ in a place like this particular _place_. It could not, of course, be anything remotely good that was making M. Duval-Weasel so exceptionally happy.

This pessimistic prediction on his part was borne out when Duval came into the chamber outside Eugene's cell with a figure in... _Augustin_. Eugene felt his heart drop. "Dear god." Augustin Enjolras, lip bleeding and a look of contained fury on his face, shackled like a common criminal and being manhandled by...

He had to close his eyes for a moment.

"Good afternoon, M. Combeferre." ...don't you dare sound so damned smug. "I've brought you company, as you can see."

It was that calculated rubbing it in that made him open his eyes, tilt his head back and survey them both coolly. "Indeed. I assume his arrest was just as illegal as mine."

The large government agent laughed a little, scoffed, rather and shrugged. "Details."

Everything is in the details, you _moron_. The world is made up of small tiny details - every one of them important and irreduceable. If you base your world on the large solide things and ignore the details, then you will get caught in the details like a nesting spider might catch lunch in her web (before, incidentally, devouring her mate. Just as a side note on how even a spider intent on cannibalism is not as vicious and underhanded as you).

Augustin speared Duval with a glare. "Important details, which may yet lead to your downfall. No one can stand for this."

Duval just laughed softly and opened the cell door, flinging Augustin inside with such force that Eugene nearly found himself knocked over by him. "No one will ever find out." Hello ominous cliche, we were wondering where you'd gotten to. "And if you two will excuse me, I've got some important things to take care of."

Bravo. Followed so neatly by Vague And Possibly Ominous But Then Depending On The Play We're In I Could Be Inuendo Statement. One could almost say you were a professional, m'sieur.

Eugene steadied Augustin as best he could lending arm and shoulder for support while he regained his footing. "Good evening, Augustin. I can't say I approve of your choice of company. He has no manners." I win the prize for the biggest understatement in Paris since someone said 'you know, maybe this guillotine thing might get a bit messy'.

Duval left instead of continuating their scintilating exchange and Augustin sighed a little and relaxed ever so very fractionally. "He certainly doesn't, Eugene, and I assure you it wasn't intentional on my part." There was a slight awkward moment when they didn't quite look each other in the eye, and then Augustin twisted slightly and made a displeased face. "Would you kindly take care of the blood dripping onto my collar, since you've got your hands free?"

Merde! Dammit, Augustin - must you get yourself hurt when I am not around? He tugged at his own cravat hastily, hissing as he turned Augustin's jaw and dabbed at the cut. Damn you, Duval. Damn you to hell. "I trust you are not worse hurt, my friend?" No hidden injuries? No broken ribs?

"No," Augustin pulled back and sat down on the bench. "And with any luck no one else will be. Prouvaire was with me, but the dog let him get away to warn Scaramouche."

Another man I would rather keep as far away from this cell as I possibly can. Oh Augustin, Augustin - do you have any idea what Grantaire will do? Something ridiculously heroic with no thought for his own quixotic skin - something at once brilliant and incredibly stupid such as only our own Perceval can do. God willing Jehan won't be able to point him towards us. Even if we have to wait this out to its legal end, Duval wants him far too badly for it to end well should they come to face each other here. "Scaramouche is involved?" He sat next to Augustin and sighed, raising both eyebrows as punctuation. "I admit I had hoped not to see you in this position, Augustin."

"I had rather hoped not to be in it," Augustin said with typical literalness. "Yes... Scaramouche is involved. We're being used as leverage - or rather, I suspect, bait."

Oh. Oh _merde_, Weasel. You _do_ have a brain. You _know_ Scaramouche came for us before, and what better way to get him out of hiding than to present him with the same trigger, the same bait, the same prize as what produced the magical masked demon out of the magician's hat last time? No wonder you went after Enjolras first. "Oh. Dear dieur. So this is a trap."

"..I believe it is."

"Well. We can't have that." God knows how we can stop that. Eugene looked around the bare little room and swallowed hard. It felt different now, knowing that out there in the lively bustling city, Grantaire was coming, bringing Joly and Lesgle and Feuilly with him, either physically or as certainly if he got captured as if he _had_ brought them physically. "At least he is warned, that's a good start. Unfortunately, he's also unlikely to stop his attempts to free us." Unlikely - completely unlikely - about as likely as the king abdicating in favour of a republic tomorrow. In his underwear. While eating custard.

Augustin broke in on that particularly bewildering mental image. "He is a very brave man."

"Yes he is." Eugene reached out and pressed his shoulder briefly. If you only knew what you were saying, my friend.

"And in the meantime - I suppose we wait."

"And hope."

Augustin nodded solemnly. "And hope."

Hope, hope, hope Grantaire _doesn't_ come, my friend. Hope it with all the fire and passion in your body. Hope it as much as you've ever hoped anything. Because he will if he can, and this time Duval has all the cards.

Translation: A bastard; a weasel; an illiterate buffoon; a cowardly, cruel, uneducated, mercenary, government swine, macrocephalous (medical term for a large head), filthy, intellectually stunted criminal; a somnambulistic (walking and carrying out activities while asleep), pathological (morbid, abnormal) moron, a beribono (argot for 'fool/idiot'), gangrenous, trichina (parasitic worm) infested batteur ( argot – liar); with a nasum rhinocerotis (nose of a rhinoceros); a complete tromperie ( argot - fraud), inimica fidei, hostis pudigitiae (Nemesis of nice behaviour, enemy of etiquette - Apuleius), who is completely and utterly in the shape of a branque (argot - donkey), a zymotic (term including all diseases which arise from germs) raboin (argot - devil), belier (argot - cuckold), and homo et humanitatis expers et vitae communis ignarus (a man completely destitute of all human kindness, and utterly ignorant of all social observance – Cicero)


	26. The Power To Protect At Such Times

**A/N Forgive the tardiness, dears. i had an essay due and wore myself out struggling to finish it - sadly since this chapter wasn't finished either, it pushed us back. Enjoy! 3**

Quiet sat uneasily over the dark asylum - darker earlier than natural as the light on the streets wending their cautious way around it was only just beginning to dim. Even air sat different in its halls, pregnant with too many secrets and whispers, too many cracks spreading out of too many cracked heads. A light or two could be seen lit through the windows, guttering on the street. But we're on the inside, here in the shadows and out there in a corridor he said was the right one is M. Scaramouche himself, Master Of The Shadowy Drama - god damn, he's not making any noise at all. You'd swear he's floating. Not touching the ground. God? One day show me how to do that?

And sorry about the blasphemy thing. I suppose it counts even if it's in my head, doesn't it?

Perceval was near the middle room now, looking into it and starting back a bit. He said something - "M. Enjolras..."

...Enjolras?

Was here?

What?

"Scaramouche... be careful." Combeferre's voice - sounding worried because yes we all know this is a trap even though we didn't know there were two springes here - god, Perceval, be careful. If M. Bastard Spy wasn't cocksure before with just Combeferre, he is now.

But no. Perceval was deep into his Role of Roles (as usual), and merely said lightly, "Capitain Scaramouche is always careful." Even knowing there was a plan and this was all part of that plan did not ease the twisted feeling of fear and nerves blending together at the base of Daniel's was some fiddling going on, no doubt with the lock, and - it struck Daniel in a rush that instead of Scaramouche, Perceval was really - well apart from being a madman who jousted with large windmills which could really ami take your head off one of these days, damn it - more like the Master Cat. Or, as his brother's English-born wife liked to call him 'Puss In Boots'.

Yes, the Master Cat, Perceval. Why not take that for your new name? You look at the world with your head on one side like you are waiting for it to make the slightest movement before you pounce on it - and look at the Master Cat - he did all those ridiculous, crazy things only to aid someone else. Which, my friend, is somewhat your habit, no?

A few moments had passed in tense silence in the hall, when a shadow moved and there - Daniel's stomach tightened to a hard knot. The spy, the bastard spy was standing there.

"Bon soir, M. Scaramouche," he said - and Doesn't He Sound Pleased With Himself, Oh Yes He Does.

Perceval started - so naturally that Daniel could swear that he hadn't been expecting this to happen from the moment they entered this asylum. "M. Duval, what an abso-lute _pleasure!_"

"Oh no, the pleasure is mine entirely."

"You'll not be minding," and here Scaramouche - you could tell he was truly back as Scaramouche, the voice and the posture and _everything_... He was making a sweeping bow now, sardonic in its exaggeration. "But... I think my friends are a little tired of this most fine establishment. I thought I would escort them home."

"I don't think so," M. Spy drawled, leaning against the wall.

Continuing the excellently done charade, Scaramouche placed a hand on his sword - and he insisted it had to be a sword as a pistol would encourage a firefight. "I don't believe I was giving you a choice in the matter."

"Neither was I."

In an excellently dramatic response, Scaramouche gave a laugh and gestured sketchily with one hand. "How exactly do you propose to stop me?"

"Oh _I_ won't..." the spy leaned in close. "However... there is a guard at every gate. And they are under strict orders to shoot any unaccompanied person or persons on sight, without question. There is only one way for you to leave safely, and that is in a pair of bracelets and my company, bound for the Prefecture."

There was silence for a moment, and then Perceval - who was Perceval again, stepped back slightly. "Guards, hmmm? That does change things." Even to Daniel, he sounded shaken. "I do detest those dam' bracelets. They are _always_so cold." He gave a sharp whistle - and mes amis that is our cue, i think? Let's not be late or the audience will begin to wonder what's happening.

They moved forwards into view, all five of them. Him and Alexandre and Maurice together and close behind Bahorel and Courfeyrac - in their own masks and costumes. Rhodomant and Leandre, Perceval had said. Not that anyone else had the faintest idea what that meant.

"And they're not getting any warmer," the spy was saying, not seeming even the slightest bit worried about their presence.

Perceval was smiling his long tight Scaramouche smile. "Colder, I have no doubt. I put it to you that considering the clear advantage in numbers I am blessed with, you will find it in your warm, giving heart to escort us to the gates and wave us off with your blessings."

God please please let him say yes to that, please. Please.

The tension in the air cracked in to little sharp pieces as Duval pulled a pistol from his belt and easily pointed it into the cell aimed at Enjolras' brilliant blonde curls. "I really don't think so."

This... was not in the plan.

"Pull that trigger," Perceval said in a suddenly very cold and dangerous and dear-god-let-him-never-speak-like-that-to-me-because-I-think-he-might-be-going-to-kill-something voice, "and I will kill you painfully and slowly."

Time slowed down. There's Combeferre moving in between Enjolras and that gun. There's Enjolras staring at it as though it's a fly - and not letting him move between them. There's all of us staring because we don't know what's going to happen next and that's the worst feeling in the world.

"My pulling the trigger," the spy said easily, a smile on his face of the nastiest kind Daniel had ever seen in his life. "Is a last resort. I'm confident you and I can work this out. All I want is a simple trade."

Perceval folded his arms, a very unScaramouchean pose. "Oh, really? A trade, hmm? State your terms."

"I have two of the men you want. In return I want you, and your right-hand man. All the others can walk free but the two of you are staying with me."

Oh god, Perceval. He means Maurice. Perceval, he means _Maurice!_ No. No, I don't care about your plan, Perceval. You didn't know this was coming and I won't let that happen. I won't. Look at him. He knows - he's terrified... I won't let this happen, goddamn it!

Perceval barely seemed to turn a hair. "I only trade myself. I would say one condemned man is worth two activist students."

...Perceval? _Perceval..._

"One man for one man...those you do not redeem, I will be forced to shoot." the spy calmly pointed his gun back towards Enjolras, his aim having slipped a little as he talked to Perceval. Enjolras looked at the gun scornfully, one hand keeping Combeferre back.

And everyone was staring at Perceval - Daniel could see from the way Alexandre was stood just in front of him and Maurice that he didn't much like the sound of what was going on... and Maurice himself was shrinking back a little... and Perceval gave one single look back at them all, even with the mask on, Daniel could see in a flash how terribly this decision was hitting their leader.

Oh I'm sorry, mon ami. I'm sorry. I know - he's got the gun to Enjolras' head. What can we do. He nodded just slightly and moved forwards a fraction, hoping Perceval would understand. Just tell them it's me, tell them it's me and we'll go from there, and Maurice at least will be all right.

Perceval seemed to get the message, for he looked calmly at Duval and nodded. "Fine. Let them free and we'll trade."

"We have a bargain." The spy's face broke into a triumphant grin that made Daniel actually lurch forwards just a little bit, and he turned and unlocked the door of the cell, keeping his pistol trained neatly now on the prisoners both. "Go on you two."

It seems to take forever for the pair of them to cross the hall and join Courfeyrac and Bahorel near the back of the group. Combeferre looked positively murderous, and Enjolras certainly didn't look pleased either.

"Take care of them," Perceval... no, he was somehow Scaramouche again now, said "You kow what to do." And he walked over to Duval as calmly as though he were Going On A Stroll to Do Things Which Aren't Very Important Oh Well.

Daniel felt Maurice hugging his arm, but didn't look at him. I'm not letting you go, cher. I'm not. You can scold me every bit you want later, but I'll die before I let him take you.

"At last," Duval was saying to Scaramouche, grinning from ear to ear.

Scaramouche offered the hilt of his sword. "Again, you mean."

"That too," Duval took the sword with a weird look at it. "But this time I have you for good."

"Nothing lasts forever."

Daniel was disengaging himself from Maurice, but then people were moving and - and oh god. Oh my god.

"Some things last so log they might as well be," Duval said with a smirk, and gestured towards the cell. "Go on." Perceval - Scaramouche - MasterCat went inside and turned and looked at their friend without expression. "And you..." Daniel nearly forgot himself and lurched forwards again as Duval turned and shoved ...

Inside.

How did that even happen?

"Go on amis. Get out of here." Perceval stood there very still and straight, and for a moment Daniel could have wept for them both - oh dear dear dear god, no - please no, don't let them be taken away.

"Yes, if you gentlemen would allow me to escort you outside..." all solicitousness, Duval - having locked their friends in, then ushered the rest of them out. Out down the halls and out of the building. Out - looking like circus freaks in their masks. Out. Out into the dusky evening and leaving... and

Daniel had barely had time to understand it.

No time to react.

God forgive me.


	27. Petrify With a Well Directed Gun

**A/N I hope the fact that this is a very long chapter will make up for it being a day late. :) Enjoy! You may notice tiny changes to the end of the previous chapter if you go back, that's because I noted some typos and fixed 'em and tidied a couple of sentences. **

The trick to being the magician, the excellent trickster - the juggler of dreams and weaver of the infinite was to first convince the audience that they could see the strings attached. An audience generally was a creature who wanted to be amazed, who wanted the actor or magician to succeed, but every audience was made up of people, and people love to be smarter - to spot the flaw or figure out the riddle. So first the trick, mes enfants, is to let the people - each singular haughty soul there - think that they can see right through you to your knocking knees and yesterday's breakfast - and then to prove them wrong.

Perceval counted to five - and then to five again, turning over and over in his head the comforting fact that in this case there were several important things that M. Audience Haughty Soul himself Duval the Creepy Spy did not know about today's magic trick. Unfortunately, there had also been several things about todays magic trick, that M. Rather Shabby Magician Scaramouche had also not known.

Enjolras, for instance. That was a turn up.

And...

Five fives - ten fives - they were well enough gone and there was little chance of anyone hearing this, so... Perceval took off his mask and turned to the other man in the cell and stared. "Good god, what the hell are you doing?"

Dominic Bahorel - Dominic _Bahorel_ mind you - Bahorel, who was not meant to be here at all, let alone in this cell, let alone locked up in this cell with him waiting for a bastard to come back who was bound to take advantage of the circumstances to continue their riveting conversations from the last time Scaramouche had been imprisoned - gave him a sort of look which seemed to indicate that Perceval - _Scaramouche_ - should already know the answer to this question. "Hoping to make it up to you."

Oh god.

Oh god no, you do not get to do this right now - god _why_ you big stupid ridiculously heroic man do you exactly think I tried somewhat to keep you out of this business to begin with? Because you _do stupid things like this!_ And you do them for stupid reasons like us squabbling - us _squabbling, Dominic_ does not mean you walk into a putain trap - a putain dangerous trap that could ultimately end up with both of us _dead_ if things go that way - to make it up to me! That is _ridiculous_ and only _I_ am allowed to be ridiculous. Because _I_ am for some strange and most likely very stupid reason the leader here and leaders are allowed to _be_ ridiculous!

"_Dominic_," he said in a voice which sounded strained even to his own ears - _god man, do you have any idea what could go wrong here?_. "Of all the stupid ridiculous things to do!"

His tall idiot of a friend took off his own mask, and Scaramouche made a quick mental note to insist he replace that the minute they could hear Duval coming back. "I know." And there was something almost pleading there - and I'm used to being that person - stop it. I can barely think as it is, don't you understand, mon ami? I can't be Perceval now, not the cracks and patches and rather silly fool you all know - I can't. I have to be Scaramouche from the skin to the marrow or we will not get out of this. Stop reminding me of Perceval and who else I can be, Dominic - Rhodomant. Please. Please stop.

Scaramouche shook his head where Perceval would have nodded it. "It's damn dangerous... you could get hurt."

"I'm a bit more expendable though, aren't I?" was the astonishing response.

Scaramouche stared, and Perceval stared too. They both stared, gape mouthed, until one of them (he no longer knew which) had the presence of mind to frown. "No. No - no one is expendable, certainly not you." he made a small noise, a snort and waved his hand in an attempt to stop the creeping back of self in its tracks. "Dammit to _hell_." You were _not_ meant to be here. You were not.

He happened to look up here in the middle of snort and wave and return to masked vigilante - masked trick-player and joke-maker and plan-former - and saw that Dominic was looking both taken-aback and actually... disappointed... oh damn. "You can't say Lesgle's not more useful out there than in here at least."

And there's the million and one franc question, Perceval. There it is. Pick a friend and doom him - go on, explain to Dominic now exactly which one of the others would be better off in here with you. Maurice, perhaps? You were ready to let Daniel step forwards rather then have Maurice - why Daniel over Maurice, why one blood more than the other? You knew then that whoever came forwards would be stepping into danger and you chose Daniel for that, Daniel to be captured and probably tortured and possibly killed. Daniel over Maurice - why? Why him? Why not Dominic, why not Lucien why not Alexandre? Admit it, you're sore at Duval and Enjolras and fate itself, and Dominic's here taking the brunt of that.

"No..." Pull it together - Perceval and Scaramouche. He's here and you can't do a damn thing. Make the best of it. He smiled - a smile that slipped into something more dry and crooked and faintly apologetic, stepped forwards and patted his friend on the back. "You understand I'd rather neither of you were in here, right?"

"Well naturally," was the pragmatical typical Dominic Bahorel answer, followed up with a grin and an easy, "I just thought maybe now you'd see I meant to follow through on my apology."

Please, mon ami, can we forget the whole damnable mess of an affair? He gave a short laugh and consigned himself to being Perceval for a time at least. "God, there's really not much to apologise for, ami. I was just as much at fault." I was really, we both were. We both were, me and then you and then me again when you tried to apologise. And I don't have time for this and I wish I did because I can't keep being me right now.

"You, ami?" Dominic gave him a strangely small smile. "No."

Let's not do this tug-of-war over who was more to blame, and say we did later when posterity knocks on the door, eh? "No, really. I'm sorry too, okay? I didn't mean to leave you out of things, I really didn't." And yet we're still talking about it, cher cell. Here in a lunatic asylum, my friend and I are talking about blame and arguments and we... Dominic Bahorel... are in a putain _cell_ in an _asylum_. He sat down on the bench Combeferre had just vacated, and laughed softly to himself.

"I suppose," Dominic looked him over and shrugged a bit. "It was a petty thing to get angry over."

God, enough. Perceval rubbed furiously at his face, trying to rub away the last four weeks, the last few nightmares, the last eon of time standing there realising Duval was going to get one of his dear dear friends into the bargain and all the rabbits were hopping out of the hats and his cards were tied with string. "Shut up, you idiot, and sit down." He followed it up with a smile, and Dominic responded by grinning broader than he'd seen him grin in a long time.

"All right, all right."

And there we are, cher cell - cher bench and cher cher cher flagstones (oh you're quite pretty aren't you? yes, you really are - nice shade of grey all round) both sitting in a cell and I, Scaramouche, am not thinking about anyone dying or getting hurt. No one will. Because I will find my cards somewhere and I will not let it happen. "Put your mask back on. He's only seen my face so far, it's best to try to keep it that way."

"As you say, Capitain." Dominic let 'Capitain' drawl out as he put his black mask back on over a cheeky grin, and - oh dammit, please for once take something seriously. Please.

"And hey - " he tried to infuse his voice with that Serious Something Enjolras managed to do when he wanted people to listen up and Pay Attention And Nothing From The Corner Thank You Winecask! "Let me handle him. He's smarter than he looks and he's very dangerous."

"Dangerous, oui. All right."

"Oui." He grinned briefly, thinking that this was better than nothing. "Good, thank you kindly."

This was an excellent cue really, and like any villain, Duval hated to miss a chance to hog the limelight. He came in with a short whistle and a slam of the door, arranging himself in front of them as though he were unveiling a painting. A rather unpleasant one, if one was to be painfully honest. "Evening, songbirds."

A brief glance at Dominic - _Rhodomant -_ to emphasise his warning, and Scaramouche turned to face his nemesis. "Good evening. Lovely to meet you again, M. Duval."

"Such a pleasure, isn't it?" There appeared on the rather unpleasant face a rather unpleasant smile, which Scaramouche returned with interest in a large dry grin.

"A delight. A rapture."

"Absolutely." Duval leaned in against the bars. "Perhaps, since we're going to be spending such a pleasant time together, you ought to formally introduce yourself at last?"

And here we are again. We know this game, Scaramouche and I. "Scaramouche," he said with charm dripping from his voice. "Duval is a much nicer name than Pilon, very much nicer, I prefer it all round."

"As do I," the smile became sinister - putting Scaramouche in mind of a blade's edge pressed up against the tongue of a snake. "Are you still obstinate then?"

"Decidedly so. One of my finer personality traits."

"Really? I do wonder if your friend here would agree." Scaramouche dropped and Perceval felt a shiver of fear as Duval placed on hand on his damn knife and looked directly through Perceval - through him and to his heart and god don't let him see how much that scares me. Please.

Here it is. Cards out in the open - and you _are_. You bastard. You are. Perceval had wanted to play the line, to wait for his fish to show exactly where he was going, and here it was, plain as day. Duval was going to try to get at him through Dominic. Because somehow Duval knew that was the best thing to do to get his way. And god, ami, I should never have called on you to come and help me, I should never have put you in that costume with that mask. I'm a fool. I'm sorry. "I don't know - I should like to think he'd appreciate it." Scaramouche didn't dare look to see what he could of Dominic's expression, he didn't dare do anything but stand, and smile, and stay cool. As cool as he could be.

"I'm sure we'll see whether he does in just a moment." Duval produced from his belt two sets of handcuffs and jangled them. Right. Handcuffs. So? I know what you mean, and you know I do, but I'm damned if I'll spell it out for you. Go ahead and say it, you bastard. "One for each of you lucky sparrows..." Duval continued helpfully, dangling them through the bars. "Care to do the honors, 'Capitan'?"

He heard his own voice saying with exceptional calmness, "I'd rather die," while his brain tried to catch up with what was going on. No, you don't get to make me do that - you don't make me the person who does this to him. I see what you're doing - no. No.

"Oh, if you're certain, that can be arranged."

"Fine." He smiled thinly and shrugged - still blank and cold and struggling to understand what this meant in every single horrible black spot of it.

Dominic's voice broke into his thoughts with an utterly dumbfounded, "Are you mad, man?" and Scaramouche turned and looked him over impassively. Right. I know. I know, dying seems like a stupid thing to do, doesn't it? But. But - Scaramouche shook his head a little and turned back to look Duval up and down. No - you don't know what this means or how bad this is. You don't know what he's like.

Still. "Fine."

A smile more evil than the pits of hell itself (which Scaramouche was almost sure he'd seen once or twice at the bottom of an absinthe bottle) passed over Duval's face. "And what fun the two of us will have when you're gone, won't we? With no Scaramouche to protect him."

Perceval - under the layers of Scaramouche - detested that Duval knew him well enough to know how to push his buttons. "You make a point. Very well." He took one pair of cuffs, trying to ignore the look of triumph on the spy's face, and walked over to where Dominic was standing now - probably having stood up when all that talk of dying came up. "They're cold," he said with a crooked little smile. "Always cold, these damned things."

Dominic, being the good good soul he was, grinned brashly and held out both hands with a careless air. "Well, that's just swell, isn't it?"

"You would think they keep them chilled just for us," he said - feeling completely detached in an awful awful way as he himself clipped the handcuffs on his friend's wrists.

He barely heard Duval add, "Oh, we do."

Or Dominic say, "Icy."

But he saw his friend shiver a little, and knew deep down that this was little to do with the coldness of the cuffs. He swallowed hard, brought every single inch of Scaramouche to the fore and gave Dominic his best 'It Will Be All Right, Trust Me I'm Crazy' look, and turned back to Duval with a cool cool eyebrow. "And now?"

"Yourself." Duval made a little motion with the second pair of cuffs and Scaramouche chuckled softly and offered both wrists, jangling them a little as they were once again encased in iron. Heavy damn things. Last time they'd rubbed his wrists raw. He lifted one eyebrow delicately in unspoken question.

"One more chance, Carouble," Duval said with a smile. "Who are you? Who are your mysterious lieutenants?"

Scaramouche gave a long-suffering sort of sigh. "I don't have the faintest idea. We barely know each other."

"Ah well... that's too bad for the two of you, then." Duval got his keys out and started to fumble at the lock. Scaramouche eyed him warily, not willing to get in between the spy and Dominic just yet. There was the chance Duval was planning on getting at him first, not Dominic, and then Scaramouche would have given him ideas. No. No, he would have to wait just a little. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dominic moving towards him, readying himself - looking for a fight. No - no, _no._ I know it's two of us to one of him, but for god's sake man, he has a gun!

And that lump in Duval's pocket turned into the gun indeed as the spy pulled it out and stepped into the cell.


	28. A Favorite of the Old Bailey

**A/N: Sorry for the lateness, dears. With deadlines on my senior thesis looming larger and larger, I'm finding I need to spend more time writing about the historical consequences of the Sûreté and less time writing about the fictional consequences of one equally fictional and very badly behaved agent. Speaking of whom, please let me warn you once again that this and the next few chapters are **_**not**_** a great read for the squeamish, weak of heart, or fond of Dominic. We should be returning to less-graphic scenes, however, by Christmas, and wrapping up this arc in favor of a lighter one by mid-January! Love, TW **

**Welcome to our new reviewers! I'll be trying to get back to you all in due course, but if I don't this may be because you have PM turned off. Thank you all for your support and patience. :) -Sythar**

In the very _very_ smallest of ways, I am indebted to you, Scaramouche. The Mec freed me from the hell of the galleys, but I am no less a yoked oxen today than I was five years ago. And you gave me the chance to slip my chains just for a while, just while he can't see me. They say he's magic, cheri, but he's just another man, and even he can't be at the Prefecture and the Hopital-Salpetriere at once. They say you're magic, too, but I can tell behind that stone-face, you're scared. Of me – of what I'm going to do to Harlequin here.

Duval unlocked the cell door and sidled in, gun first and business end trained on Harlequin. "You're coming out with me."

Scaramouche reacted immediately. "Now now, what do you want with him? I believe we have several unfinished conversations lined up and it would be devastatingly rude for us not to complete them."

"Oh we will. Later." Duval smiled at Scaramouche's futile little games as he slowly rememorized his face until he was sure he'd know it anywhere. "The sooner you tell me what I want to know, the sooner I'll be done with him and the sooner we can get around to finishing them."

"Why him?" Scaramouche protested. "I'm the one who keeps making a fool of you."

That stung, and Duval smiled through his teeth to throw the sting back at him. "Exactly."

The sneak turned white. "Yeah, but you've got enough time. Why not have a go at me first?"

"Because I already know that won't do me any good, and I'm not a patient man. Maybe afterwards." He moved and took Harlequin by the arm, dealing with his objections by swinging the pistol right into his face. "Do you really want to do that?" Harlequin's mouth shut slowly while his eyes stayed fixed on the inside of the barrel. "Didn't think so."

Harlequin started to struggle again as Duval dragged him toward the door, and Scaramouche jumped forward in an attempt to get between Harlequin and the gun. He pinned Harlequin against the wall for a moment and pointed the gun back to him. "Move."

Scaramouche stared back fiercely. "No."

Do _not_ defy me, dog.

Duval hit him once in the side, quick and hard, but Carouble's pose held. One more time with all his weight behind it, and Scaramouche went down upon the flagstones. Harlequin sprang up and kicked him – such spirit, what a pleasure it will be to break it – Duval turned, grabbed his leg, and pulled back on it sharply. Harlequin yelped like a pup with a broken back, but before Duval could enjoy the sound Scaramouche was back on his feet again – shoulder rammed in Duval's stomach. Duval dropped Harlequin and hit him back, and he and Scaramouche struggled until the sneak was pinned against the cell bars – gun tucked back in Duval's belt and Harlequin safely out of action, on the floor and paralyzed with pain. Scaramouche thrust back hard, trying to break away, and Duval slammed him back into the grille.

"You're going to do exactly as I say," he seethed.

Carouble grinned stubbornly, despite the pain in his eyes as Duval continued to squeeze him bodily against the bars. "No – I won't."

"You will."

A choked laugh. "Why would I, grippe-Jesus?"

Duval pressed closer and looked Carouble plain in the face. "Because I'm going to do whatever it takes to break you, and there's nothing you can do about it."

"You can try," Scaramouche said calmly, facing him back. "I'm not going to break, just to spite you."

Duval chuckled gently. "We'll see about that."

He reached back to grab his gun for a powerful knock on the head, but as he heard Harlequin struggle up behind him Scaramouche flung him back and thrust out his fists. Duval turned to absorb the blow – reached out – grabbed the dog and let his punch swing him around into Harlequin instead. Down they went, the bastards, but Scaramouche caught himself – Duval hit him in the ribs, knocked him down. Left right left right and forehead. Out.

Scaramouche collapsed on top of Harlequin and Duval thrust him to the side roughly. Time enough to deal with you later, dog, just let me humble this friend of yours a bit. And let me tell you…that mask is the first thing that's going.


	29. Crush Humanity Out of Shape Once More

**A/N: Hello from TW! I'm posting for Sythar since she is currently out of town at her brother's wedding. :) Thanks for the good wishes on my thesis, dears - it's a lot of work, but really has been ever so much fun (and helpful in writing this arc!) thanks to my choice of topic. And now, without further ado...Dominic thoroughly earns us our 'T' rating.  
**

Dominic had had some fairly nasty things happen to him in his time, but nothing that had ever hurt so much as that bastard grabbing at his leg. His whole hip…on fire. By Satan's putain ever-damned ever-fiery twice-damned son-of-a-bitching manhood_, it hurt_. "P'tain scum," he hissed between clenched teeth as he saw the spy coming at him from above.

Duval grabbed him by the arm and started hauling him out of the cell before he could conquer the pain well enough to move on his own – or hell, even breathe right around the searing pain radiating up from his leg. "Save your breath, _Harlequin_. You're going to need it to convince Scaramouche here to tell what he knows – unless you'd rather tell me first…"

Harle- ? Oh yeah. Yeah…Harlequin. As in the person who _isn't_ here, but you can't know that. Dominic gritted his teeth further, damn you, you'll never find out anything about them from _me_, and spat at that sneering face. "Never."

"Suit yourself." He found himself locked out of the cell and suddenly the mask was ripped from his face. There he was, face exposed. Naked. But at least you don't know my name, eh? Or Gra – or Scaramouche's, either. Scaramouche. Harlequin. Right. Agreed. Scaramouche and Harlequin… It felt wrong somehow to take the name away from its rightful bearer, but god knows, you can have it _back_ once I'm done taking the beating for it, and maybe – yeah – maybe that beating would make up a bit for being so wrong before. He turned to look at Scaramouche's panic-twisted face and got pushed back into place with a growl of "Don't move when I'm looking at you".

Harlequin scowled up. "Why not?"

Fingers closed down hard on his shoulder. "Because then I do this." He was up on his feet and pinned on the wall before he could struggle, and – _nom d'un putain chienne_ – god – his arm was twisted around all the wrong way in between and – and – Harlequin. Scaramouche. Got to make this up to them. Got to do right by them. He would have thrown off his attacker if he could, but – he could barely move his right leg at all, and Duval had him at such an angle – damn it. Son of a whore. When did you learn physics, you damned wall of meat?

"_Don't_," Scaramouche begged, out of sight.

If I can't get away, got to just take this. Stand up and stay up and take it like a man. Got to keep my mouth shut, got to –

_SHHNNAACK_

Do you know what a bone splintering sounds like, gentlemen? Not breaking off cleanly, no, that's _SNAP_ loud and clear. Splintering, like a man with a rope-harness ripping a limb from a tree.

Perhaps more to the point, do you know what a bone splintering _feels_ like? Because - let me tell you. Let me tell you, ami. If you're the praying type, light your candles and chant your chants and pay off the priest – just pray God that you _never_ find out. And if you're not, just – just stay away from walls of meat with grudges against your friends. Don't try to be a stupid hero, like me, Bahorel here. I mean Harlequin. Trust me. It'll knock you flat out.

When Harlequin could breathe and see and hear again, he was on the floor and still in more pain than he felt any one homme should be made to stand, and the tower above him was crowing, "If you're not ready to tell me the truth yet, there's plenty more where that came from…"

I'm sorry, maybe I'm not fully conscious again yet, because it sounds like somebody's knocking on the door. No? No, not the door. The cell. Somebody's banging on the…Scaramouche was throwing himself against the bars. Scaramouche, why in God's own hell are you…but then Scaramouche fell to the floor unconscious and Duval kicked Harlequin in frustration and ow ow ow good putain god don't _do_ that. It wasn't until the spy had dragged Harlequin back into the cell and slammed the door that his battered, pain-washed brain connected the dots.

He's hurting me, to get to you, so if he can't get to you, he won't hurt me.

Clever, that. Nicely done.

But we'd better both hope that help gets here _soon_…and that it brings a doctor with it.


	30. The Worst of Times

**A/N: dear all. No we are not dead - and I can only apologise humbly to everyone. The thing is, I got tonsilitis and was in bed for a week, and THEN I was in a show which ran two weeks almost every single night. i have been utterly exhausted and had no time or energy to write this up. Good news - TW is nearly finished the next chapter so that will be up on time. Also, it's Christmas. Please do make requests for Christmas specials in your reviews like last year! We can't promise they'll be written before the holidays, but we will do our best to make sure every request gets seen to!**

**Thanks again for your patience. **

All things considered, all things that had happened, poetry and equality and doing things the right way - Jehan thought perhaps this was exactly the moment where it didn't matter what fish were involved or how much people might indeed come to need or rely on that help when it finally didn't come again. Now was the moment when heroism stepped off pages and out of the manuscripts of poetry and fairytales and became a pressing horrible need. Like the need of a people for a leader to take them out of oppression and poverty and into a new, cleaner world.

He needed Grantaire. Grantaire, Joly, Lesgle - he really really needed them. They all did, and dear dieu in heaven forgive them most of them would never know who it was that they were relying on to fish the sharks out of the Seinne for them and give them minnows for lunch.

Jehan had run - run as fast as he could to the small theatre, doubling back and forth, ducking down alleys, running around corners, trying to shake every hope of pursuit and instead running into trouble after trouble - old women who wanted to ask him for help, a drunk brawling, a lost cat, an angry shop owner - he arrived panting and too out of breath to speak to a theatre which was cold and silent and empty. They had already gone.

He didn't know what to do then - horror washed out everything except a prayer - which he recited softly under his breath as he ran - first to Joly's house and then to Grantaire's - which he hadn't even realised he knew the address of. Then to Courfeyrac and Bahorel in case they had heard something. Every moment his heart thudding wetly in his ears and pointing out this was his fault, he had let Enjolras be taken and now Grantaire and Joly and Lesgle would walk into a trap unwarned - and God have mercy, he didn't want that to happen to _any_ of them!

Finally back to the theatre, and he huddled inside and waited in case maybe somehow someone might come back. He didn't doze, he knew that. time inched by, inched and no poetry or words would come to comfort him. It was horrible.

After forever he heard footsteps just outside and Enjolras - _Enjolras_ came in. Enjolras himself, saved from the jaws of the lion. He explained everything - Scaramouche and harlequin and the trap and the others and how he couldn't help them rescue Scaramouche because the spy knew him far too well and now Jehan was running again to a new rendezvous, a small place near Courfeyrac's apartment.

Poor por Grantaire. This was not fair at all.

He slipped into the courtyard and saw Joly and Lesgle leaning against each other in obvious distress - Courfeyrac and Combeferre miserable in a corner and Feuilly pacing up and down the cobbles, eyes flicking over his crew as though hwas trying to root out their troubles through force of will alone.

"Pedrolino," he said as Jehan came in. "Harlequin, Combeferre, Courfeyrac..."

"Here," Jehan added sheepishly, slipping into the circle and hoping they wouldn't send him away for being late, or an unbeliever, or at fault.

"What now?" Lesgle asked furiously, his usually gentle face red and angry and distressed. "This was not planned for."

"Right," Feuilly ignored this interruption and nodded at Jehan. "There you are, thank you for not disappearing. Now."

"Now what?" Joly was trembling a little. Jehan hadn't had time to hear exactly what had happened - but whatever it was, it had shaken them all.

Feuilly nodded at him calmly. "That's what we're trying to figure out. Pedrolino, would you please take a deep breath. We will get them both back."

Oh... but wait. Harlequin was Joly - and Joly was here. And Lesgle was here and... And... There was only one other person who could have been taken and Jehan felt himself crumple a little at the thought. Bahorel. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I... I couldn't get you in time."

"All right." Lesgle was looking at Feuilly. "Are we following Scaramouche's plan?"

There was another plan? Or a first plan? Or the plan had included a plan for what if Scaramouche gets caught in a trap? Jehan's head was spinning.

Feuilly was suddenly beside him and touching his arm. "Don't fret so, Prouvaire. And yes. We will follow the plan. I trust you are all still willing to participate - we won't take you along if you aren't."

"I am," Combeferre said in a tone of voice that indicated how displeased he would indeed be to be left behind. Jehan eagerly nodded in agreement. He was willing to help, of course he was! Anything at all to help get Bahorel and Grantaire back out - to do something somehow to make up for messing things up so badly.

"Right then - let's go. Our time may be running out faster than we think." Feuilly started to explain the plan - and really by the end Jehan was no longer under any confusion that it was, indeed, Grantaire's plan. No one else could have come up with it.


	31. A Far Far Better Thing

**A/N: Warning for more violence and (this being Dominic) for several instances of very bad swears, in English this time around. Also, if we don't get any requests, we will have to think of something ourselves, and you all know how well that always ends... :) Really, don't be shy, dears, we love seeing what you come up with! They don't have to be Christmas-themed, just think of something you would like to see with any of the CS characters. This is our way of saying thank you for all your support, after all! -Love, TW**

Harlequin registered that the spy had gone, god knows why but thank god he had and tried to breathe. Ow - let's...let's not do that again, shall we?

He was up on the bench at least, propped against the corner, arm hanging useless in his lap. The only thing Dominic could think of was that he was awash in pain. He had a high tolerance for the stuff, yeah, but this was something else en-fucking-tirely. Shaking, he reached around with his free hand until he found the flask buried in his pocket. Great thing about a metal flask, amis - you may have a bottle-shaped bruise when you get beat up, but at least it won't shatter into your leg when a certain weasel in trousers slams you against a wall. He tried, failed to unscrew it and bit at the lid until it finally came off. Brandy. Very strong. Good luck that he hadn't given it to Luc like he'd planned this morning...god, was that only this morning? It had been. This had been a very...very long day.

Dominic choked on the liquor a little as it bubbled over his lips. It burned, but it was good. He could feel his pain starting to numb and his strength coming back a little as the warmth spread throughout his body...what a relief. He considered draining the rest of it, but he might need it. Or...Scaramouche. Scaramouche might want it. Scara...Perceval was starting to come to on the floor. "Hey, 'mi," Dominic offered unsteadily.

Perceval groaned and tried to pull himself up, but stopped at collapsing against the wall next to him. "He stop?" he muttered.

"Yeah. Went out for somethin'..." Dominic held out the flask weakly. "Brandy?"

Perceval stared uncertainly at it for a few minutes before shaking his head. "No...shouldn't. Really shouldn't. Thanks, but...thanks. No."

"Suit y'self." Dominic fumbled around until he was able to get the lid in his teeth and the flask in his hand again and started the frustrating process of trying to get it back on.

"I'm really sorry," Perceval said after a long, pained pause.

The lid clicked back into place and Dominic tucked it back in his pocket, gasping as he bent over. "What for?"

Perceval tried to stand up again and fell onto the floor beside him with a grunt of pain. "...getting you involved in this...he's only after blood because I annoyed him so."

"You di'n't involve me in this. Involved m'self in this," Dominic protested. Perceval made a face at him and sighed.

"You all right?"

"Eh...I've had worse." He turned to smile reassuringly at Perceval and his broken arm fell out of his lap and – _son of a ever-damned piggish moldy_ – "Eh...then ag'n...maybe...I haven't," he mumbled around his bitten lip while trying to pull it back up with the other hand.

"Ami..."

"All right..." Dominic tried and failed to grin. "Yeah...tell the truth, it's...a bitch."

Perceval nodded knowingly and grimaced in pain. "Yeah...damn." He stopped to catch his breath. "...ami – y'know how I've never asked you to be part of the League?"

Hell, yes. It's only been on my mind for the better part of a couple months, y'know? "Ha...yeah. Course I know that."

"You know why?" Perceval said slowly. This he wanted to hear, yeah. _Why_ you didn't include me in your club, eh?

"Why, 'mi?"

Perceval looked up out of the corner of his eye, not moving. "Because you're too... damn... stupidly heroic, you great oaf. I knew you'd go do something like this and nearly get yourself killed. And ... really, ami. You're not the type to live a double life. You're all you. No one else."

Dominic leaned back a little and let his breath go. Funny how the one reason he'd never expected was _saving you from yourself_. Not that he'd never thought about R that way, just that he'd never thought about _himself_ that way. But Perceval had a point, that he'd make a _lousy_ masked madman. Once you crammed all that Bahorel into one homme, there was no way there'd be room left over for a secret identity, especially if that involved giving up the opportunity to do whatever the hell he felt like. As he had when he decided to play Harlequin for that weasel with the knife. "...Yeah. I guess so." He looked down at the mask lying at his feet and gave it a good kick so that it flipped over and landed face down. "All me."

Perceval's pain broke a bit into a smile. "...thanks. You were great."

He smiled back. Things felt right again. "Yeah...I was. So were you."

Perceval just shrugged, groaning at the movement. "...you weren't meant to be here, you know."

"Better me 'n somebody else."

"Eh - we've had this argument already so I won't comment," Perceval sighed.

Dominic shrugged as well as his stiffening body would allow, and was about to resume arguing his position when a key turned in the lock outside and in stepped – of course. Duval again. We couldn't be delivered for too long, could we? That would simply be too much to ask. "Getting along well, are we?" the weasel chuckled, locking the door behind him.

Perceval turned ashy. "Splendidly..."

Duval watched him try and fail to sit up and smiled a little sinisterly. "Having trouble, are we?"

Scaramouche replaced Perceval in the blink of an eye, as if an invisible mask had just slid over Grantaire's face. It was _unsettling_. Scaramouche grinned up at the spy. "...just a little. It's so _comfortable_ on the floor."

"Oh really? I can ensure that you'll stay there if you like."

"So kind, M. Duval," Scaramouche said brightly. "We really are grateful to have such a considerate host."

"Yes, I'm sure," Duval said with a grin growing in crooked.

Perceval coughed slightly. "Where were we, M. Duval? Something about the floor?"

The weasel's gaze flickered between the two of them dangerously. "I believe so..." That...was not a good look. Very much not a good look. Scaramouche's eyes narrowed a little, but otherwise he merely cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. Scaramouche the jester and his masks again. Personally, Dominic was suddenly _terrified_ given that Duval's eyes were now come to rest on him...Harlequin. _Harlequin_...

One hard shove later, he found himself sprawled on the floor against the opposite wall from Scaramouche. "And you..." The bastard nudged him with his foot. "How do you like the floors of the Bastille, hmm?"

Harlequin bit back a groan. "_Just fine_."

"I'm sure you do," the weasel said, grinning down at him with that same greasy, crooked smile. "You know, if your arm hurts so very much, I'd be delighted to remove the problem for you."

I bet you fucking _would_. "Naah...s'fine," he gasped.

"Hmmm...So...it wouldn't hurt if I were to, say, do _this_?" A boot suddenly came down hard on his broken arm and – mother – god – weasel – son of a – trout –

"I can quite easily knock myself out again, you know. No effort at all, really," Scaramouche said loudly as Harlequin fought not to scream or black out. Even with the alcohol in him – _pain_ – fire, like needles –

"Oh, you can if you like. But it's not going to do _him _any good." The weight on his arm came down _harder_ and Harlequin shrieked.

Have you – say, ami – have you ever seen a dog get hit by a carriage? And get its back broken? And heard that sound? Yeah. That one. That was me just there. Hey, it hurt like fucking...fucking hell, so don't judge me, a'right? ...please?

Hey – and somebody's knockin'. It's not Scaramouche on the bars again either cause...cause I can see him right there. Furying. Somebody's really at the door.

Well...this day sure's hell can't get any _worse_...


	32. The Age of Foolishness

**A/N: Merry Christmas all! This is CS's second Christmas period and we would love to celebrate that with you all. Two readers have made requests already and do be aware we haven't closed requests at all. MadameCombeferre, I have snagged yours, and HisPrincessHope - TW and I are talking about how best to do yours so hopefully you should be seeing them in about a week. :) Feel free to request away, people! The only real constraint is OOC stuff OR things which are plot-important which haven't happened yet. I.E. asking for a chapter from a different POV is fine, asking to see how Enjolras finds out about Scaramouche isn't because we can't give that away. **

**Have a great holidays everyone!**

There was no god, there was no mercy, and there was absolutely _no_ justice in the world. Not that Duval didn't already know this, no, he'd known it from brutal experience since he was small. The sentiment, however, was only reinforced by this interruption as soon as he was finally beginning to make a bit of headway. He'd left them alone – given them time to talk about whether to give in to him or not, lick their wounds, see just how badly their silence was hurting each other – and now he could step things up, wear them down a bit more. If not for this damned knock at the door, which could portend _anything_. If it were the Mec, he was _done_ for for sure. If he'd just sent Marc again – still not great, but slightly less likely to end in his getting his own ass handed to him – but no time to think about this.

"Une moment!" he yelled, hauling Harlequin back up and unceremoniously dumping him into his chief's arms. Whoever it was certainly couldn't find him in the middle of such a bloody, if well-deserved, interrogation. Duval kicked a few things back into place, pulled the cell door back into place, and suddenly considered the sorry-looking heap of human flesh in the corner. He was going to need a ready excuse for its condition. Grimacing, he tore at his clothing furiously for a moment, then drew his knife and nicked the inside of his lip. A quick blow to his forehead with the hilt, calculated to bruise, and that would do for now. He put the knife away and opened the grille of the door with an injured man's shaky wheeze. "Yes...?"

He had to look down to see the person on the other side, an imperious little round man with hard, black eyes. "Duval?"

"Yes, that's me," he said, straining to see details in the dim corridor light. He looked to be in uniform, which...damn – _damn_!

"You still have the prisoner, correct?" the gendarme intoned.

Duval looked at him suspiciously. Only the Mec knew that he was here and that he had a prisoner. The rest of the police shouldn't know, and certainly not these meddling clowns...unless...somebody'd _squealed_ on him... "I do," he said – well – not quite the same prisoner, but _you_ don't need to know that, M. Sergent de Ville. "Why?"

Another gendarme spoke up behind the first, a slight mocking tone in his voice. "Your master M. _Vidocq _sent us to take over your interrogations here. He seemed to think there was a risk they're not going entirely according to policy."

_Us? _Name of a...how many the devil _are_ there of you dogs? Jules, Jules...I swear you've interfered in_ my_ case for the last p'tain time. I told you I'd be careful and I could handle this. Who's been lying to you or snitching behind my back? Just _how_ the hell do you know what's going on here? Duval slammed the grille with bad grace and drew the main door open in order to get a better look. "I can _assure_ you gentlemen, I need nothing."

" Vidocq's orders," the one in the back said flatly. _One_ of the ones in the back. It looked like he'd sent a whole complement – I see how it is, Jules. You just don't trust me at all.

"We are under orders to escort any prisoners you may be holding here to the Prefecture, _monsieur_," said the first. The _monsieur_ was easily seen through as the merest sneering nod to politesse that it was – because, hell, how could you ever let me forget you're better than me? It wouldn't be right to let the common convict go getting ideas. It's bad enough he's on the streets at all without giving that jail-dog a little common respect too, isn't that your way, you perfect honest toads of the _gendarmerie_? Duval opened his mouth to growl a protest, but the little man cut him off with a look of disdain. "With or _without _your permission, he said." He raised an eyebrow. "And what, may I ask, has happened to your _face_?"

Duval drew the back of his hand over his chin as if he'd only just realized he had blood running down it. "Oh, tha'?" He pretended to probe around for missing teeth, grimaced, and spat into a dirty handkerchief which he promptly stuffed back in his pocket. "Th'...suspects put up a fight. We had quite the struggle, 's you can see from the state they're in. Probably ought to put that in my report."

"Yes, you probably ought to." The gendarmes' leader looked mildly disgusted. "In any case, I'm sure that with numbers on our side we ought to have no trouble with them. Now, how many _are_ there? I was told to expect one, but to transport 'any and all' back to the Prefecture in _accordance with official Sûreté policy, _which as I'm sure you know states that -"

"This is a special situation," Duval spat bloodily. "I have specific permission _from the chef de la sûreté nationale_ –"

"How many are there?" snapped the little pig.

He grimaced. "Two. But they don't have papers, so I've got nothing to give you on them."

"We'll put something together. Gérard, would you take care of the suspects."

One of the other gendarmes produced two sets of handcuffs and advanced on the cell. "Open it."

"All _right_." He pulled the door open and stood aside to let the sergents get to Scaramouche and Harlequin in the back.

" So we're leaving your fair and gracious hospitality, M. Duval?" Carouble drawled, looking up at the noise. "How sad. I'll miss you terribly."

Duval growled. "And the same to you, _cher_ Scaramouche." The dog just laughed and blew him a kiss as the sergents snapped his semiconscious companion into cuffs. "Allow me," Duval fumed, pushing past the one in the doorway to where they were pulling Carouble to his seat, "he's the kind to play tricks with the jewelry." He produced his own set of handcuffs and motioned for Scaramouche to hold out his hands where he could see them.

"Oh dear me," Scaramouche sighed, complying. "Not _this_ again."

"Consider it a reminder of our last day together before your execution." Duval snapped him in with a smile.

Carouble grinned back. "We had...fun."

He nodded. "Oh yes. Delightful." The little fat one in charge made an annoyed throat-clearing noise and Duval sighed and stepped away from his erstwhile prize.

"Cold as always." Scaramouche jangled his bracelets and made a bow to him, the jester. "Till next time, then, M. Duval - and you gentlemen must be my parade. How lovely," he added, bowing to the gendarmes before him as well.

"I suppose you might say that," the leader said, shaking his head at the bold rogue before him. "Come along, then."

Duval leaned out into the corridor to watch them go, then stormed back to his chair and flung himself into it. Someone must have told Gene he was getting too rough with the little rats – that was the only way. But why shouldn't he be rough with them, anyway? After all they'd done to him? And it wasn't as if they were surrendering their information. Someone had to get it out of them, and he had been on the verge of it.

And here he was now, alone in a madhouse.

Wonderful.

Simply wonderful.


	33. A ResoluteLooking Man in Authority

**A/N - My dears. The tardiness is my fault completely. I have been struggling to find a flat and the chaos made it impossible for me to focus on my writing. Here at last is the first Javert chapter of the series. Please note that this is a slightly OOC situation as I have interpreted Hugo's placement of Javert at the barricades as well as the way Javert used disguises as an indication that he was a member of Vidocq's Surete. As we have mentioned, Vidocq's Surete itself is AU historically, as at this point in history, Vidocq was not leading the Surete. Please accept these changes as part of the AU nature of our creation. -Sythar**

**I'm posting today! So hi, everyone. Christmas requests **_**are**_** coming - as aforementioned, Sythar is moving house, and I have been starting school, changing jobs, doing new thesis work, etc. etc. A note on her Javert's diction, which may seem a bit unfamiliar - his particular tone and slang are drawn from Romany chib, reflecting his gypsy mother and his practical yet dramatic personality (think "It will not fire"/"Would you like _my_ hat?"). Context ought to clear it all up, but do drop us a line if it doesn't. Much love, TW**

And well now. If all the bitti piguris in Dad's good green wild free earth came and placed their nuts in his pocket - he would hardly be as chirpy and ridiculously puff-cheeked a squirrel as M. God-To-You-Mortals-Who-Don't-Know-It-All Vidocq was at this very singular moment. Why yes, dears. Regard the Mec of the whole of France and see how his chest is a little more puffed than a puff-chested robin. That means - allons, enfants, pay attention or I'll have you down in l'hopital for not heeding an officer of the law, eh? It means that he's hooked a great big fish on his sneaky little fish hook. And here am I - a lucky mortal treading in his large footprints all the way to the madhouse.

No no, enfants, quit your party. I meant literally. Madhouse. Up there. On the right.

Inspector Luc Javert, formerly of the municipal police, recently attached to M. Eugene Vidocq's Surete Nationale, raised a fabulously bushy eyebrow at his employer's broad back and 'tsk'ed mildly in response to the rather fantastical story being fed him about these masked voleurs and their tricks. "Ah and then walked _in_ to the Surete and _out_ again - eh? In and out and that's rather pretty. Bold of them."

"Understatement doesn't suit you, Javert."

"Well now, and here I thought I was pandering to your tastes, Jules. Forgive me." He sketched a splendid bow, and Vidocq only tilted his head back enough to catch the tail end and grin. "By this I am meant to see that I am a terrible exaggerator of all things and generally a giant pain in the behind, neh?"

"Pain? Oui." Vidocq gestured languidly with his cane. Fanciful bloody thing that it was - but heavy. Like all things around Jules - you look at it twice and then three more times and if you see anything then - well it's still probably not exactly what you could be seeing, ah? "In the behind? Oh oui. Giant - and look at that with you being so impossibly tall as to present me with more than one concern for your health. All quite true as usual."

"We strive to please."

"One of us does." Vidocq waved them both through into the madhouse and walked him around a corner and down a muffled hall. The place crawled over with splinters of shadow and the faint feeling that spirits were walking on his grave somewhere in the uncertain future. Cross th' circle and say a prayer against the dead and damned, the living and the mad. His palms itched and he lengthened his stride, feeling the small of his back prickle. Catchy thing, madness.

They had in point of fact been having _lunch_, thank you people who don't think it's important to eat when doing a job which is twenty-eight of the hours in a day, on a good day, in a good week, in a blessed proverbial heavenly psalm of a paradise. Lunch - which was verrrry novel as an idea and oh so nice a concept and then this pin-headed twig of a child rushes in and tells them a lot of nonsensical nonsense about M. Duval and a man in a mask and well here they were going to see what was what with Georges. And Georges would be abso-lute-ly deeee-lighted to see M. Javert on his doorstep. Oh yes. And speak of the black tarry devil and he shows up smelling of pitch.

Duval crossed to them from a sort of collection of cells for the mentally cursed. "G'day Jules. Luc."

Ah monant, who told you my name? Javert raised a brow and drawled, "Georges."

Vidocq stood himself in the centre of the room like a planet to revolve around - and drew attention to him through sheer force of gravity. A trick which would be handy to learn - mental note made and logged - write down later. "Hey ami. Javert wanted to take a look at your set up here, so I brought him over." Sneaky, Jules. Oh so sneaky. Put the blame on me, why don't you? Let's not let our charming colleague know you had a little tip off and are here to poke your sticky beak around into things.

Georges swelled visibly, seeming to be - well - angry. Intriguing. "Kind of pointless without the prisoners here, isn't it?"

There was an expression which resembled - ah there it was. If one had ever seen a fox out looking at a rabbit where the rabbit can't quite move, and the fox's eyes are saying that it knows the rabbit cannot move, and it fully intends to have the rabbit for dinner. That exact expression on the fox's face was now on Vidocq's. "Prisoner_s_?"

"_Without_?" Javert added helpfully, don't see why you should have every little bit of the fun to yourself - monant. Give me half a moment and I'll even have my pipe lit. If it's in my pocket. Which it may not be.

Georges Duval gave them both an exasperated look and spoke as slowly as one might to a very very young child. Or a Mayor. Especially if that mayor wasn't a mayor. In fact - Javert made another mental note re. Mayors Who Aren't Mayors and What To Look Out For In Such Cases. "Yes. To both. I had the one, then one of his no-good amis showed up to get him out, walked into the trap I had up for Scaramouche. Then Scaramouche and his gang showed up and I convinced them to exchange their top two men for my two rebels. It all went off fine, and then you sent the men to take 'em over to the Prefecture for more _reliable_ interrogation than myself."

Javert stepped back, leant against a wall and found his pipe. This - this, bon dieu, was going to be good. Excellently good. Vengeful deity good.

Vidocq took a breath and smiled and said in a sweet anges-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth voice, "Georges, since when do I go sending out sergents-de-ville to escort my agent's catches anywhere _near_ the Prefecture?" Gene paused a moment to let Duval's face ebb to - ah a very fine shade of white - and then continued just as sweetly, "Perhaps we'd better to back to the beginning and you can explain it to us old beribonos again, eh?"

Ey - gadzo - less of the old, if'n you don't mind, merci so very much.

Duval nodded a little. "Yeah."

"Your little birdie..." Gene helpfully and artistically raised a finger. "The one you were in here with when I popped by earlier had a friend come in to see if he could get him out and you picked him up too, oui?" There was a reluctant nod from Duval and so Gene swept masterfully on. "M. Carouble and his team of - of whatever they are also came a'visiting and you managed to get the top two - Harlequin as well as Carouble himself, I presume?"

"Yeah..." Georges gave another blank nod. "Took a bit a' talking but they did it."

"How long ago was that?"

"...bout five hours ago, I s'pose."

Javert lit his pipe with a stray match that had been swimming in his pocket. Bad answer, Georges. In fact that answer could not touch a good answer if it were tied to the end of a long pole being carried by monkeys on top of an elephant.

"Five." Vidocq smiled more calmly than ever. "I see. What exactly have you and your little birdies been doing for five hours that you were too busy to inform me that you'd got your hands on our Carouble again?"

Finally Georges seemed to realise how bad this all was. "Trying to prevent Carouble from committing suicide, mostly."

"Oh yes?" Vidocq raised a brow - unimpressed.

I don't blame you, chief. I have heard many a tall and wild tale out there and I've seen many a lie and this here is a tall lie if I'm not mistaken. "Suicide." Ah - the fellow who sat around in a cell being interrogated - calm as a clam - and now a few minutes in your golden company...

Oh, now I understand it all. My apologies. See this? This is my sad face. I'm sad because I mentally wronged you.

"Knocked himself out a couple times on th' bars," Georges said succinctly as though this was a splendid explanation.

However there was a slight flaw, which Vidocq pointed out astutely. Well done, chief. "Why didn't you secure him, then?"

"Because I didn't expect him to do _that_. And then when I tried to, he fought me and one of the others jumped me too." Here a gesture at the bruise and cut lip which yes I did notice and no I did not care enough to ask about. Bad Inspector. Naughty. "I figured you'd be coming by soon enough, or send somebody else."

Here there was a pause as everyone tried to assimilate this hole-filled story. Javert puffed a smoke ring at the ceiling and studied their expressions, these two powerful men. Georges blank and slightly apologetic, Gene disbelieving and beginning to smoulder just a little around the edges. Curious. "...so in the end you had him, some sergents-de-ville come by saying they're from me... and you handed them over?"

"Yes. Yes, I did. And now they're probably all laughing at us somewhere." It was not a placatory sort of growl, Georges' cheeks flushing red again.

Javert did a little math in his head, squinting. "...how many did you lose, then? Four?"

"Two ...no, you're right. Four. Damn it."

Four little birds in and out like that? Good God in heaven. What the hell were they charged with? What are we looking at? "Dieu, what are the others? Thieves? Pickpockets?"

"...that's right," Vidocq added slowly. "I never did pick up what you arrested the spectacled one on."

This. This is an awkward silence. Javert watched Georges squirm a little uncomfortably... and... oh. Ah. Sundry other noises of enlightenment. It was that way, was it?

A look of horror passed onto Vidocq's face. "Georges. You didn't."

"I was going to press charges for revolutionary activity if I hadn't got him off my hands first. He had a set of their literature with him."

Oh hold on now, gadzo. Slow this omnibus down as I wish to get off! "...there were no charges_ pressed_?" Not a single little charge for le citizen sat there in that cell and ... oh good god, that would make a headline and a half.

Georges glared. "It didn't seem necessary."

"...all the damn harassment I get about doing things _properly_, all the times I convince the prefect I'm no _agent-provocateur_ and you arrested a citizen with no CHARGES!" Jules had gone from white to a deep red to white again and his voice was raising now past a yell and into a full-bodied bellow of rage. A big - angry - bellow from a big angry man and Georges, wise lad, had the sense to keep his mouth shut and let the Captain say his piece or by god he'll clout you one. "You held a man in prison for a _DAY_ with no charges?"

Georges backed up. "It was...it was stupid, yes."

Javert saw Vidocq lunge a little and put a hand on his shoulder. Now now, chief. You're a bit above that, don't you think? "..._stupid_. One word for it, Georges."

"...Oui. _One_ word for it." Calm now, Jules. Calm. Don't knock his block off before he's had a change to use it properly. Georges nodded and Jules made an explosive noise. "...This is a mess. I thought I could trust you. _Can_ I trust you? Is this all a plan to undermine me and sell me out to the cognes?"

Georges Duval looked affronted - honestly affronted. Javert thought perhaps it was the first time he'd been affronted in his life. "I'd never do a thing like that."

"I'd hope not." Jules glared. "You're too close to this case if you're making mistakes like this, Duval. You're off it. Javert here can take it off your hands."

...oh now wait a minute.

No. You don't just throw me in...

Damn it, Jules.

Unfortunately Vidocq did not seem to be paying any heed to his stare of 'dear god man don't you dare throw me into this mess'. "Take a few days' leave and then come by my office and I'll hopefully be in some mood to give you something else to do." And then - mess and disaster in his wake and not a scrap of lunch to be had today apparently - he swept out in a splendid exit. Bravo, mec. Wonderful. Ask me next time, eh? Javert glanced around, looked at Georges - who was seething quietly - and tapped out his pipe.

"I'll... be where I'm usually at. Drop by later, eh? I've no idea what goes on here 'cept from what I've heard around the table at the office."

Lesson number one-hundred-and-thirty-eight of being a good policeman. Never get the details of a case from a man who just had that case taken away from him in the most embarrassing manner - until said man has had at least a few hours to cool off.

"I'll fill you in then," Georges said curtly.

Fine. I'll just show myself out. Out of the madhouse and into the madness, eh? Dordi dordi, what are we in for now?


	34. A Man of a Strong Resolution

**A/N Several things, dears. 1. To-know-I've-got-an-I, if you are still reading… thank you very much. We both sincerely appreciate your support. 2. To those poor people still waiting on holiday themed one-shots! I apologise, it's really all my fault. As TW kindly explained last update, I have recently suffered a traumatisingly stressful move and am still recovering. Ideas are in the works though so hopefully we'll get them to you soon. TW wrote this rather fast so here's an early update to apologise for our slow ones lately. Thank you all for your faithful comments and for continuing to read. We really are very grateful for you.**

Right, Alexandre, I want you to remember something. You are never, ever to let Perceval do something like this again. Yes, I remember he asked you, when you all formed the League, to not stop him if he tried. Well, you see where that gets the lot of you! He is the most stubborn, foolhardy, ridiculous and…and stubborn _ass_…

Pan Twardowski had designated himself, Harlequin (the _real_ Harlequin), and Prouvaire to bring Scaramouche back, while Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Pedrolino had Bahorel. They were taking different routes back to base, but by Harlequin's calculations they shouldn't get there very far apart…they just all had to get back to safety before the sun rose, and the false dawn was already hanging over the rickety buildings above them. There were more and more people on the streets now…don't worry, just plan, Feuilly. We'll all get back to the theater in just a minute – Enjolras will be there. Keep the act up until we can get him back out. He won't have slept, so perhaps he won't notice we're just a little bit too familiar. Maybe someone can distract him. Maybe I'll ask Combeferre. No, Combeferre's got to look to Bahorel. And here we've left the masks in the madhouse. Damn it! And we can't go back to Perceval's apartment – too many witnesses around there. Do you think, M. Twardowski, that the estimable M. Enjolras will recognize Perceval Grantaire sober? It's very possible he won't.

And look at you talking to yourself instead of thinking. Look, Feuilly, here's your plan. Jehan can distract Enjolras since Enjolras _knows_ he's with us, and then we can send them both home. Combeferre and Maurice will look after these two and in a few hours Courfeyrac, if he's still inclined to be useful, can go drop a note at the Surete that maybe they had better go check on their Duval, eh? And you and Daniel can help the other two and do anything necessary to throw off a pursuit. There. That's a plan - a solid plan, not likely to expose anyone to more danger than necessary. He relaxed quite a bit and shouldered Scaramouche's weight more firmly now – he and Harlequin each had one arm, while Prouvaire played lookout behind them. "We're almost there."

"Are you sure we're not being followed?" Harlequin asked, looking behind them nervously. He was tired and _caffeinated_ again and his persona was starting to wear through to a worried and guilty Joly underneath, especially since he had seen the injuries visited on the man who had replaced him in that lion's den.

Scaramouche rolled his eyes skyward. "Not unless the Surete Nationale has begun to employ pigeons."

"Hush, both of you, or someone _will_ follow us," Pan Twardowski said irritably. Scaramouche scoffed a little and fell back into his labored breathing. Prouvaire was silent.

Soon enough they came to the tiny alley they wanted and threw themselves into its shadow. Pan Twardowski drew a silk mask from his pocket and tied it onto his unprotesting chief as they sat to catch their breath and await their companions. Their wait was not long – within minutes the other three stumbled into view, Bahorel lying in their arms like a dead man. "Eats bricks for breakfast," Courfeyrac joked weakly, though his countenance was drawn and whiter than his friend's. Oh God, what price are these others to pay for our rash actions?

"Don't obstruct his airflow," Combeferre – barely recognizable in the makeup of old age - protested as Pan Twardowski pulled out his handkerchief to serve as temporary disguise for the stricken man.

"But Enjolras can't know –"

"Enjolras already knows that Prouvaire and I were here," Combeferre said. "Why not him as well? Bahorel won't be able to hide or explain away an injury this big later."

Ah. Here we go on this slippery slope of ours. "The question is, Combeferre, if you're all here, then where are _we_? If half of the ABC is always missing, he's bound to realize –"

"Combeferre's right…as he so often is," Scaramouche wheezed, silencing Pan Twardowski – I see that I am not destined to get a single one of my sentences finished today. "I do not think…that Enjolras will necessarily draw that conclusion...he has…enough sense not to go quite that far."

Pedrolino nodded. "He's not going to suspect _us_, Pan. Say Jehan just called in th'other two because he knew they'd be useful for getting Enjolras and Combeferre out, eh? What would _we_ be good for, for that?" Harlequin nodded along, while the three who were not of the League looked rather uncomfortable at the ironic turn of his tone.

"I think that's…an excellent plan. Thank you, Pedrolino." Scaramouche patted Pan's arm and then folded his hands very finally. "We'll do that. Prouvaire, you may do the explaining."

"I'm not going to lie to Enjolras," Jehan started to protest, but he trailed off under Scaramouche's gaze. "Well…I suppose…since it's not quite a lie. I will."

"Thank you." Scaramouche gasped a bit and settled against Pan Twardowski's arm. "Well…shall we, gentlemen?"

Enjolras was waiting for them on the edge of the stage, but he leapt up at once when the door opened and Pan could see him making a mental count. Yes, Enjolras. We're all here. Though he hadn't meant that all his friends were together, they _were_, and the thought cut Feuilly's heart deeply. So many secrets, and for what? It was a charade, and a painful one, and the sooner they could be rid of it…if they could _ever_ be rid of it…Jehan ran to intercept Enjolras and began to talk at top speed, telling the latest version of this story. There would be no changing anything tonight.

"Put me over on the stage," Scaramouche huffed, snapping Feuilly out of his fatalistic drift and back into character. "I'll get these bracelets off myself."

"You're _injured_. No. I'll do it," Pan Twardowski told him, guiding Scaramouche toward the stage with Harlequin's help and beginning to work on the cuffs. "Dieu, Scaramouche, you look like death."

"I'm not the worst off." Scaramouche winced as he settled back and tried to find a comfortable position. "Rhodomant's the one I'm worried about. That bench there," he said, raising his voice, "Pull it under the lamps so M. Combeferre will have light to see by. Put him on that, please."

Rhodomant? Bahorel. Scaramouche…had named Bahorel.

Pan had little time to think about the consequences of naming the man – who, surely, had earned his forgiveness now – because Rhodomant's face passed under the lamps around the same time that Prouvaire appeared to have gotten around to telling Enjolras who all had been with them.

"He what - _let me see him._" There was no question of _letting_ Enjolras do anything; the man was already pushing Prouvaire aside and striding through.

Feuilly couldn't see Bahorel around the tight knot of people at his side, but his voice rose up clearly. "Hey – 'jolras – don't panic or anythin', huh?"

"I'm not panicking, Bahorel, I'm assessing the situation. Combeferre –"

Combeferre held up a hand. "Enjolras. Please – I need space. And you too, Courfeyrac, messieurs – "

Enjolras whirled around. "Courfeyrac!"

Courfeyrac folded his arms a little proudly. "I wasn't going to let _him_ go off and have all the fun helping rescue you."

Enjolras – good god, Alexandre, look at that - Enjolras can _laugh_. And he did laugh, and seize Courfeyrac by the shoulder with a broad smile. "You are absolutely mad, both of you – all of you – but I love you all the better for it. Now, tell me what the devil you have all been doing with Scaramouche, and what has happened to Bahorel, here."

Jehan and Courfeyrac began to both explain at once, while Combeferre and Harlequin set grimly to work behind them. Scaramouche turned back to Pan Twardowski with a sigh. "…would someone care to tell _me_ what happened?"

"Well," Pan said, turning back to his work with the lock, "There's the short story and the long story. Short story, you were in prison, and we got you out." He could tell from the look on Scaramouche's face that the short story wasn't going to do it. "The long story – we went with the original plan, except without Bahorel, and convinced Duval to let us get you both out while actually bringing you back to the theater, as you can see. Courfeyrac can take care of the tip-off, since he doesn't have any charges against him and ought to be just fine, if we just suggest in a few minutes that Enjolras take Prouvaire home and get him some rest."

Scaramouche nodded. "I'd just like to talk to Enjolras a little first...find out _his_ side of things."

The _click_ of the lock covered for Feuilly's momentary stunned silence. "Of course. If you like." He sat back and gave Scaramouche a once-over, frowning at the look of his face. "Would you care to tell me what happened to you, exactly?"

Scaramouche looked down at the cuffs he was removing rather than up at Pan. "I…had a collision with a cell door. Several times."

"Courtesy Duval, I assume?"

"Duval was…hurting him to get at me," Scaramouche said quietly, after some hesitation. "So I ran into the prison wall until…I knocked myself out. But yes…he had a go at me and my ribs…before that."

Pan stared at him. "You _what_."

"…it was going to get him killed otherwise. It stalled him, didn't it?"

"You…" Pan Twardowski shook his head and decided not to scold him now, as it simply wouldn't do any good. "I'm going to get Harlequin or Combeferre to look you over when they finish with Rhodomant. I insist."

"I'm fine…mostly." Scaramouche sighed and leaned onto Pan's shoulder. "I don't like it when my friends are hurt…especially…because of me."

The man behind the masks showed himself then, and Pan Twardowski's irritation dissolved. Some burdens shouldn't have to be borne at all, and poor Perceval was doing the best he could – and doing it bravely. Alexandre put his arm around him gently. "None of us do, Scaramouche...none of us do."


	35. To Let In a Little More Light Here

**A/N: Halloa everyone, it's TW posting for Sythar again this week. Just to let you know, we're going to be on a bit of a slower posting schedule for the next couple of months up through the end of Arc Five, about one every two weeks. (Hopefully, this should eliminate our constant begging of forgiveness for late chapters!) In case anyone was wondering what Augustin has been thinking this whole time, here's your chance to find out. Love to you all and thanks for staying with us as we come up to the close of our second year writing and publishing CS. ~TW**

Enjolras' head swam a bit as he contemplated the scene before him and sorted out everything Prouvaire had explained about yesterday and this morning. First of all, Combeferre had been captured. Then, he, Enjolras, had been captured as well, and Prouvaire had gone to Scaramouche. Scaramouche had repented of his decision not to include the Amis and allowed Courfeyrac and Bahorel to come along, and so they had all gone to free the two of them while Prouvaire kept lookout at the theater - bien, he's very good at that, very conscientious boy, Prouvaire. And then they had meant to switch Scaramouche and Harlequin for Combeferre and himself, but instead, Scaramouche and _Bahorel_ had been captured. But they hadn't told him that part, only sent him to fetch Prouvaire and wait here. And in the meantime, there had been quite a bit of torture, to the extent that he (Enjolras) was now trying to question Courfeyrac about legal recourse in between the poor man taking occasional glances at Bahorel and looking very ill. It was all so confusing, but Augustin was determined to understand it.

"M. Enjolras...?" Scaramouche said from where he was resting on the stage. "May I have a word?"

"Of course, M. Scaramouche." Augustin put away his attempts to understand, patted Courfeyrac on the shoulder, and went to join him. Pan Twardowski, crouched beside his chief, stood up and established a respectful distance, though still hovering, Eugene-like, within sprinting range if the man should suddenly collapse.

Scaramouche sighed briefly and his eyelids flickered but slightly beneath his mask. His question was simple. "What happened?"

Enjolras made an effort to be similarly concise given Scaramouche's weakened state. "After you left, I remembered that we had some contacts who might have been able to help you. We had gone out to find them when the spy ambushed us. He overwhelmed me and...and took me prisoner, while sending Prouvaire to warn your League." A sense of failure no less overwhelming than the spy's fists weighed down his chin to his breast at these last words. For god's sake, Enjolras. You call yourself a competent servant of Liberty, and you fall at the first hurdle.

The masked man paused in – surprise? Augustin's eyes remained firmly fixed upon the floor. "...I see," Scaramouche said finally. "It was good of you to assist us, M'sieur Enjolras. The machinations of Duval are no responsibility of yours."

"They are not, but it _is_ my responsibility to confront them capably," he said quietly. "I apologize for having failed you in your time of need when you did not fail us in ours."

Scaramouche sat another while in silence, and Augustin glanced up, and saw him blinking wide. "M'sieur...please," he said quite firmly when he spoke again. "Let us not apportion blame for the devilries of a foe."

_That's very charitable of you, but the fault was mine after all_, came to his lips, but he closed them again before it could escape. It _was_ his fault and he ought not to ignore that, in order to be just and honest, but the man was weary and didn't want to hold a long conversation consisting of _yes it was_, _no it wasn't_, like a pair of old society dames apologizing over a broken teacup_._ It was truly painful, besides, to keep dragging up the faults he wished he could hide. He brought himself to a compromise. "I...will consider myself to be even deeper in your debt, monsieur. I hope you understand."

"I understand," Scaramouche said, "Thank you, M. Enjolras..." but Augustin had stopped truly listening. He had been struck in that moment with the unsettling feeling that Scaramouche was not merely saying that, that he _saw_, he _knew_, he _understood_ the weight of not being quite good enough. It shook him down to his core and something turned over at the bottom of his soul that he knew instinctively he did not want to look at. He pushed it away for the moment; it was too big, too portentous to be thought of here.

He felt the strong need to be alone.

"And thank you for this rescue and for all you have done," he replied with a mechanically polite nod, distancing himself.

Scaramouche nodded back slowly, sounding very tired. "It's nothing special I'm doing, M'sieur Enjolras. It's what should be – what needed to be done."

"And that is more than many men do." Enjolras sighed a little and bowed his head again. "I will leave you all to your work now. I hope it goes well with you." He looked up to see Scaramouche nod and close his eyes, and taking that as his permission to leave, turned abruptly on his heel and walked away. His only pause was to give a nod to his friends and shrug off Prouvaire's concerned embrace before he turned himself out into the cold morning sun of their cold mid-March. Mars, warlike one, what omens you have brought us! Grantaire's voice rang out in his head. Enjolras gritted his teeth. Can I not have a moment's rest from you, damned fool, stupid, cynical, world-weary, ridiculous and over-dramatic...

He was suddenly struck by the most bizarre thought he believed he'd ever had. Weariness and dramatics were not characteristics unique to Grantaire. If it were not for the man's constant and almost defensive cynicism, he would be put in mind of – well, of Scaramouche. There were few times that he had seen Grantaire not drinking, but he remembered, now, last month - the "Fallacies of Revolution" discussion. He had not been drinking then, and he had _certainly_ not been absinthe-addled when he had written that essay years ago. Enjolras had always believed that Grantaire was capable _in principle_, even if the sot no longer bothered to dry himself out enough to take action. What diametric opposites Grantaire and Scaramouche were! And yet –

And yet...

"Augustin, you really _must_ sleep a little," he said quietly to himself, shaking his head over the coins he was counting out for his morning bread. "Comparing yourself to Scaramouche, and now Scaramouche to that uncompromising apathete! If that's what happens when you go a week without rest, then perhaps Eugene's not entirely wrong about its value."

...and yet...he could not help noting their similarities, of which there were more than made him entirely comfortable.

He would have to broach the subject with Combeferre very soon.


	36. Now As To The Future

**A/N Here is the next update and there are only two more for this arc. We've done some major rethinking of what is coming up next so first the semi-bad news: We've compacted the next five arcs to two. Good news – it will be a lot tighter and work a lot better than it did before and the plot holes have been worked out. Also we like to think that we're discovering new and awesome things about all the characters which will provide them with greater scope to grow. After this arc is finished there will be a brief Hiatus while we write up the script for the next arc. Please be patient! We hope to have a few oneshots updating in that time. **

Everything hung thick with quiet, ever so much quiet in the room after Enjolras had left it, until Alexandre jumped back up onto the stage and took his seat back next to Perceval, saying, "He'll be furious if he ever realizes what he's been doing."

"And perhaps therein lies a very good reason why he should never learn," Perceval sighed, and leaned onto Alex. Daniel – oh Daniel –nodded along.

As for Maurice, he was trying to help Combeferre – doing his very damn best really I _swear_ I am but oh god this is hard – to realign Bahorel's bones. Simple fracture of the ulna, comminuted fracture of the radius, and the latter was what was taking so long."He'll probably need surgery to get the pieces all together again," Combeferre said in a low voice, seeing how slow their progress was. "If not an amputation entirely." Courfeyrac turned absolutely green; Dominic – Bahorel – Rhodomant –whimpered manfully; Combeferre shook his head and drew his lips together grimly."It's getting difficult to tell now, as much as the arm's swollen. If only someone could have seen to it sooner...move it a little – that way, my friend."

Dominic's arm made a sickening _click_, at which he moaned and Lucien almost passed out on Jehan's shoulder. Perceval gave Alexandre one of the _looks_ they'd developed, which in this case seemed to mean'Courfeyrac really needs a distraction, doesn't he?' because Alex returned the look and came over to where they were. "Lucien...it's getting into the morning, and Dominic'll be all right with Combeferre and Maurice," he said with a surprising amount of diplomacy. "Would you mind going down to the Sûreté for us? Just say you're from the P'tite-Salpetriere and could they _please_ do something about their Duval, because he's causing an awful racket."

Courfeyrac pumped Feuilly's hand gratefully. "I can do that. Sure! I can do that. I'll put up the worst fuss they've ever seen. How dare their idiot agent interrupt us keepers' bridge game with that horrid noise, eh? Vidocq won't be able to say no if he wants to. _Do_ take care of Dom, won't you? Of course you will. You'd damn well better. I'll see you fellows later."

Prouvaire tried to tell him goodbye as he bolted for the door, but yawned very loudly instead and looked very embarrassed. "Jehan,"Perceval said kindly, "shouldn't you be going home soon?"

"I suppose," Jehan muttered sheepishly. "I want to help, though!"

"Right now the most helpful thing you can do is to go get some sleep," Alexandre said firmly. "We've got it under control here, and you need to rest."

Prouvaire's attempt to argue was nipped in the bud by another prodigious yawn and he admitted that perhaps he was a little tired.

"Go sleep," Combeferre said, patting him on the shoulder."You'll feel better for it."

"All right, all – a-a-a-a – all right," he said with an enormous yawn, and blushed. "Sorry! Good night, everyone – or rather good morning."Maurice bid him good morning and looked down to see that Dominic had finally passed out from pain and exhaustion. Eugene slumped a little in relief as he saw it too.

"All right, Maurice," he said tiredly. "Almost there, I think, at least with what we can do for now."

Maurice shuddered and nodded. It was making him sick, absolutely oh so _sick_, to think that this damage had been done by a _human being_, who had once been an innocent and vulnerable child, with the capacity for good – done by a human being, for no good or necessary reason. It made him sicker to think that Dominic's injury had been intended for Perceval –or really for _him_. Harlequin. Those consequences weren't yours to suffer, Bahorel, but you suffered them.

"Is he all right?" Perceval asked, raising his voice from where he was now lying on the stage.

"He'll live," Eugene said, helping Maurice stabilize the arm with a splint.

"That's good," Alex murmured. "Good...good, good," Perceval said as he struggled to sit up.

Alexandre took him by the arm immediately. "You're laying down, Perceval."

Perceval pulled off his mask. "I'm sitting up, Alex."

"You're not sitting up until Combeferre and Maurice get a look at you. You're probably concussed. Lay back _down_."

"I'm _fine_. I'm –just bruised."

Daniel's smiling voice came drifting over. "You two sound like Combeferre and Enjolras." The comparison made Maurice smile, and Combeferre made an amused noise through his nose.

"Heresy, Daniel," Perceval said, then groaned from the effort of trying to hold himself up.

Alexandre rolled his eyes and pushed him down gently. "Whatever makes Perceval act sensibly."

"But I need to check on...on something," Perceval protested.

"_After_ you get yourself looked at."

Combeferre shook his head. "I'll do it now. Maurice, my friend, would you care to finish this dressing?"

"Of course." Maurice took over binding Dominic's arm as Eugene wiped off his hands and went to tend to a protesting Perceval. Oh, Perceval. You're always getting into these things, and only barely getting out of them...

When Maurice had done wrapping and prodding and anxiously stacking blankets under the shattered limb, he looked up and, for the first time since coming in, saw Daniel. The dear man had settled himself down in a dangerous-looking alcove with a dim lamp and several raggedy coats, probably properly property of Pantalon – oh _god,_ with such alliteration, he really _had_ had too much coffee, hadn't he? Joly's temples were starting to throb, and so he decided that _yes_ in all likelihood he had. He could feel the caffeine contracting his blood vessels and dehydrating him and likely putting him at risk for apoplexy. He needed to rest. There was nothing left for him to do. He could rest, couldn't he? Daniel. Yes. There was Daniel.

Daniel, perfect friend, wrapped Maurice in one of the coats at once and situated him firmly under his wing. Er – arm. "You're overworking yourself again, cher," he said, totally failing to maintain an image of disapproval.

"For a good cause," Maurice said, and laid down his head with a nervous sigh. "Daniel...it's a – a terrible thing to say, but – I'm glad that wasn't me."

"It's not terrible." Daniel hugged him tightly. "If that _had_ been you..." He went very grim. "Maurice, I'll owe Dominic all my life."

"So will I." Maurice shuddered at the thought of that _beast_ of a man coming for him – snapping him like a twig. He saw the entire scene again right in front of his overstrained eyes, Duval asking for Scaramouche and Harlequin and – and he had _really_ meant to come forward. He had. But Daniel had started first, all ready to sacrifice himself – and he had tried to hold him back and go forward instead – oh god, if it had been Daniel!

Duval would be dead now, if it had been. Maurice didn't know how, exactly – his homicidal capabilities were truthfully somewhat limited – but he _would_ be. And it struck him that, quite likely, he would be dead thanks to Daniel if it had been Maurice. No doubt Luc was going to take particular relish in turning Duval in to his superiors, now, since it had been Dominic. Combeferre corrected Enjolras –Enjolras, for his part, directed Prouvaire – Alexandre and Perceval never stopped fussing at each other...

It had been horrible, sometimes, in the last few months, not to be friends with everyone like they'd always been. It never got that bad before and Maurice hoped it'd never get that bad again. But somehow, with Scaramouche's help, they'd all pulled together now. All looking out for each other again. Yes - that's how things work around here, he thought. Looking out for each other...that's how we have the strength to get beyond the part of life that's just showing up. We need each other...and we're all so damned lucky to be alive now.

He was dimly aware of being very dizzy and faint, of shivering all over – maybe he was going into shock. Quite possibly that was it – and of very hot tears seeping onto his cheeks. Daniel murmuring something about terrible stress. Some of Perceval's blood that had smeared onto his fingers. We're lucky to all be alive. Too much coffee. The wayward pieces of Dominic's splintered radius. Masks, and pistols, and fencing-foils. The man he was – the man he wasn't– Enjolras – secrets – friendship – they ran through his head without mercy, and he was too tired, too unsettled to make himself be rational. Gradually, however, he gave into Daniel's own weary attempts to calm him, and drifted into sleep. Maurice really was overwrought, and spent the next several hours battling a nightmare in which his own ghost haunted the theater while Dominic and Daniel and Perceval were condemned to eternal torture in the P'tite-Saltpetriere for the crime of having worn masks before the King, who had Enjolras' face, and all the rest of his friends were still in prison because Scaramouche and his League had failed to break them out. It shook him almost as badly as setting Dominic's arm had, so it was a mercy that, when he awoke later that evening in his own bed, he remembered none of it.


	37. Faces of Anger and Pain

**A/N – Dear all. I am so so so so sorry about the delay. I have been incredibly busy with study, youth group (leading), work, exercise, and so much more. In humble apology I'm updating twice tonight to finaly finish this Arc. Enjoy!**

There was something ironic about all this happening around a stage in a small theatre in a small street in the maw of Paris herself. Gods, if it weren't for the pain in his side Perceval would have been glad to chalk this up to another aberration of absinthe – a lark of the Green Fairy twisting her wicked long fingers in his hair and pulling tight. Up in the centre of the stage – look closely and you'll see the medical drama fading to a happy conclusion with M. Medicine standing there and looking down on his poor patient. Forgive me… give me a moment to turn a clever phrase about that patient – give me a little space of time to forget the _sound_ he made when that bastard broke his arm, will you?

Hell.

Forgive the profanity, mon ami, my dear little theatre. I love you more than you can know – you have been home and hearth to me when home and hearth have been anything but. But… this little panorama, the doctor and his man – the friends holding each other and sleeping off their fears, the discarded uniforms in a mound in the middle of the floor where we all wish we could discard the trappings of this growing insanity – the dying footfalls of Lucien off to bait the dragons and Enjolras off to some higher plane where god willing he'll realise this was not and never could have been his responsibility… All of this is beyond me. We shattered and – I shattered us, didn't I? Just like Dominic's arm.

Which had been a **crunch**. Perceval heard it again and shook his head hard. Dominic looking at him – Duval looking at him, both of them knowing that if he opened his thrice-damned mouth and said four little words _My name is Grantaire_ then none of that would have happened. Or perhaps, and let's really get down to things, how about if he had said three other little words a little earlier, mm? _I forgive you_ and voila – Dominic Bahorel is at home and safe and …

And Maurice Joly has the broken arm. **Crunch**. Or worse.

"All right, what now?" Combeferre earned what might be a short-lived eternal gratitude but was a very fervent one to make up for it, by breaking into that train of thought.

Pan turned from where he was standing and glaring in a distinctly 'if you think that wearing a mask means that I am going to let you hurt yourself then you have got another thing coming' way. "Perceval, would you like to tell him what happened to you, or should I?"

So many masks. Scaramouche, Scaramouche – take this for me, I am neither smart nor fine enough to understand what we do here any longer. Perceval lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at Alexandre, trying to focus. You called me my Christian name, ami. Why? Because we can now that neither Pilon or Enjolras are about, or to remind me that a man sits behind the mask we created? Dieu. I wish to god we were finished with all these games. "I'm bruised."

"He's bruised," Alexandre said with a heavy irritated sigh. "Because he knocked himself out against the cell wall."

Oh thank you. Thank you so much. That sounds like I was _trying_ to get hurt. And I wasn't even trying! Well a little. Well all right so I _was_ trying to get hurt but I had a very good reason. A very very good reason – don't glare at me like that. And it wasn't the wall it was the _bars_. Totally different. Smaller. Thinner. Hurt more. In more places. I'm not helping my case and – maybe it's a good thing I'm not a lawyer, mm? Yes, your honour but he didn't mean to steal the oranges. Well he _did_, but it was for a good reason. Wanting to eat the oranges was a good reason, right? And they weren't oranges, they were grapefruit. So we can go, right? Perceval shook his head again and caught a look of utter horror on Combeferre's face. "Half of it is because Pilon is generous with his fists."

Why did I say that? That's _worse_. And half the grapefruit weren't grapefruit, they were watches from the shop up the road…

Alexandre decided to offer the explanation which Eugene Combeferre was obviously looking for. "It was to stop him from whaling on Dominic in order to get information out of Perceval."

"It was necessary." Don't argue this one, mes amis. You didn't have to listen to that… **crunch**.

"Was it." Combeferre looked utterly unconvinced and was getting out his things again.

Alexandre folded his arms. "It wouldn't be so bad if he'd leave well enough alone and not injure himself further trying to do things."

I protest, counsel. What 'things' do we mean here, and am I suddenly four years old? Are you my mother? Because if you are then she has been reincarnated in a form I was definitely not expecting. Confusion mixed with anger and a sudden feeling of …. **crunch** … nausea. Perceval stood, with only a little struggle because at the moment the pain from his chest was preferable to thinking. "It was necessary, Alex." Am I Scaramouche now, telling you What Must Be? Or Perceval Grantaire pretending I know what I'm doing? Or neither?

"You're impossible!" Alexandre threw up his hands in exasperation, looking not unlike Eugene did sometimes when arguing with Enjolras.

Perceval wondered what was so impossible about wanting someone to stop… but derailed his own thoughts before he could get to the end of the sentence. Flowers. Oranges. Mother. Anything.

"Necessary or not," Eugene took his elbow firmly. "Please sit down, Perceval."

Who _isn't_ using my Christian name these days?

The pressure caused him to turn a little and something grated and a white flash passed in front of his eyes. He reached up and passed his hand over his face and his hand was shaking and there was so little left of anything anymore that maybe all the thoughts would stop if he just kept going and going and going until whatever happened after everything stopped. Word for that. Can't remember what it is. "I'm going over there…" vague gesture. "To check on Dominic."

Alex took his other arm suddenly. "No you're not." You aren't agreeing with anything I say lately, why?

"You're really not," Eugene added, using a rare contraction. "Sit down, my friend. You'll make whatever it is worse."

They both glared, the fine ones. Alex trying to keep them all steady, Eugene doing the same. Both of them doing the same thing, one medically and one with the fierce protectiveness of a man who knows too well what hell they could fall into otherwise. They both glared and Perceval took a few steps uncertainly, wavering between Dominic and listening – Scaramouche – letting Scaramouche take over until Perceval could be asleep… and being Perceval who listened to his friends before he got them all into trouble.

His knees decided for him and gave out and he fell and was caught.


	38. The End With Quiet Heroism

**PLEASE NOTE THERE HAVE BEEN TWO UPDATES. **

**And so this is it. The end of our longest arc to date, and one of the most involved and active. So far. A few notices:**

**1. As we have mentioned earlier, we are cutting down the number of arcs to come due to a refining of the storyline. This does not mean that more arcs or short stories or other CS related things will not follow, simply that the projected full storyline is going to take less time to complete. At the moment we project 2-3 more arcs, though this may grow as we plot and write it out. Because we are **_**radically**_** rewriting the plot from here, it will take us some time before we can start posting Arc 6. This will mean that there will be a hiatus for a while.**

**2. While CS itself is going to be on Hiatus, TW and I will not stop writing. We have several projects on the boil and please do stop by and read those while you're waiting for us (or read storytellers' stuff. She's awesome). I'm writing a fantasy take on Les Mis called Les Cartes Du Destin under my username 'Sythar', so drop me a line – and both TW and I will be publishing a series of short pieces from the Surete's point of view as they react to on and off-screen actions from the League.**

**3. TW and I will be found over at (forum4(dot)aimoo(dot)com(forwardslash)lamecreation the Les Mis section) talking LM fanfiction, swapping ideas, sharing oneshots we don't intend to publish on for whatever reason, and offering our services as beta readers or sounding boards for any of your fanfiction writing questions. We make a point of not allowing flaming or trolling on our forum, and if you don't want people talking about OOC-ness, you can just say so and we will only focus on the writing style.**

**4. Another place for discussing fanfiction is storytellers fanfiction discussion forum on where storytellers and I will be hanging out.**

**So – until we're back with Arc 6, pop by our forums or PM us. We'll miss you heaps and we'll still be updating sporadically on our other projects so don't forget about us! Happy Late 2****nd**** Birthday Capitain Scaramouche!**

**-Love**

**Sythar and TW**

**P.S. OPEN SEASON. Please feel free to give us ideas for antics you'd like the League to have been perpetrating for the Surete to talk about – OR things you'd like to see happen in the next two arcs. We will probably be able to work them in somewhere.**

Brilliant. Collapsing heroes, republicans dressed as sergent-du-ville, fan-makers tricking the head of the Surete. Whoever is writing this particular penny-dreadful, I would like to protest our positive dearth of cases of consumptive whores, plaintive orphans and nefarious villains pretending to be long lost relatives when they are in actual fact members of the Haute Pegre who are chasing one of our friends who is secretly related to Charles X and heir to a massive fortune. Probably Joly, I would say. Or perhaps Lesgle, as his Law Student With Perpetual Bad Luck identity would be an excellent cover.

Eugene snorted, and considered that since both Augustin and Perceval seemed hell-bent on taking ownership of the whole debacle he was going to have to be practical and spell it out for them in clear French of less than three syllables. Do not think I will let you forget any time soon that you are both robbing me of a few moments of guilt-ridden ridiculousness myself. Who was it, might I ask who let Pilon – Duval – whoever he is surprise them in Enjolras' flat, overpower them _and_ arrest them informally and without any charges? And thus set off this whole chain of horrible events? Yes, my two leaders, that would be me. So as you are both going to force me to be logical about this and not dwell on my own culpability, I expect a fresh notebook – or apple from each of you.

God. I sound like a teacher.

But let us be reasonable, mes amis. Who is to blame for Pilon's obsession? Perceval? While we might argue that it Perceval's efforts in uncovering Pilon as a spy and deflecting his attempts to arrest and or embarrass us enraged the connard, that was not the start of this mess. Nor, indeed Augustin, was it your lack of insight into Pilon's character when he approached you. No. We cannot lay the blame here on Enjolras' shoulders either. His faith in the inherent goodness of the people is one of his strengths, and I for one am sorry that we all had our delusions of moderate anonymity and safety shattered like this. Was it to our own benefit? Most likely. After all, we are now on our guard. We are less likely to be caught in the same bear-trap twice. But that we _have_ to be on our guard, suspicious of any new man in case he may be a government mole – is far from ideal. I look forward to a time when this will not be needed.

So – who is to blame for criminally and illegally arresting me in Enjolras' apartment? For breaking into said apartment in the first place? For abusing a position of power to torture helpless prisoners? I think we might easily say that this person is Pilon himself. Lay blame where blame is due. Even M. Vidocq pointed out quite loudly his displeasure with Pilon's techniques, and Vidocq is not even on our side. (Perhaps some day he will be. This would be helpful since he is astute, powerful, and unorthodox and may be more difficult to outmanoeuvre than the National Guard.) Pilon is a weasel. In trousers. In fact this is an insult to weasel kind and the minute I get back to my quarters I shall write them a letter and apologise for the comparison. So please, can we stop laying guilt on our shoulders, stop demanding why – how – where and who… and _stop_ saying what should have or could have been until at least _one_ single bloody day has passed between us and this nightmare?

Thank you.

As a note, however, Perceval, if you dare do this again I will personally eviscerate you.

Eugene nodded to Feuilly briskly and the two of them half carried, half supported the fainting Scaramouche/Grantaire/whoever you are you strange man over to a chair. "Set him down here, thank you. Now glare him into submission while I examine him, will you?"

"I'll be happy to." Feuilly directed a very respectable glare at his friend, who looked up blearily, lopsidedly hunched his shoulders like a scolded schoolboy, and submitted _beautifully_ to the removing of shirt and cravat.

Oh dear _god_. I will start _charging_ you, you empty-headed numbskull if you _don't _take more care of yourself! Eugene heard Feuilly hiss in concern as they both looked over Perceval's torso. Or not just his torso – because there was a gash on his head too – and a bruise down his cheek, and definite discolouring around the collarbone. But the torso was certainly where the majority of the damage had been done, and large swathes of skin had purpled angrily. "I see."

"He loves my ribs," Perceval said quietly.

Feuilly looked slightly _more_ murderous than he had been looking earlier, which was enough for Eugene to start considering ways to hide his sharper medical instruments. "Tough love, is it?"

"A bit."

Idiot. Eugene felt over the ribs in question as lightly as he could while still getting _some_ idea of what was going on, and addressed Feuilly directly so as to avoid shouting loudly at Perceval and waking up Bahorel, Joly and Lesgle. "How bad would this have been if he'd been in there alone?"

Feuilly met his eyes, and Eugene could tell he wasn't the only one who had been wondering this ever since they had been forced to leave Bahorel and Grantaire behind. _If_ Enjolras had not been there… _If_ Perceval had been on his own… _If_ Duval had been faced with no one but the focal point of his obsessive rage… would there even have been a corpse to rescue? "I'm guessed quite a bit worse," Feuilly said in the sort of voice Feuilly used when he was making an understatement.

"Better." Perceval yelped a little as Eugene's fingers found a break. "I'd have been the only one hurt."

Eugene took one look at the anguished expression on Feuilly's face and gritted his teeth. _Dear M. St Just – I have become friends with two thick-headed impulsive men idealistically committed to flinging themselves into dangerous situations without the slightest regard for their own welfare. I am sure you would approve of one of them as he is utterly devoted to the Republic, while the other is apolitical but no less devoted to protecting any and every person who comes into his circle of acquaintance. As I predict either one or both of them are going to get themselves killed shortly, I wanted to know whether it would be directly violating the Rights of Men to lock them up in their apartments for the rest of their lives?_

"Perceval," he said finally in a very very quiet voice. "A word of advice: don't say things like that when your friends are worried about you."

"Because we are," Feuilly added tightly.

The stubborn look on Grantaire's face softened a little and he looked at Feuilly. "I… just would… rather get only myself in trouble."

"The trouble with only getting yourself in trouble, Perceval, is that you can't get anyone out of trouble like that."

Circuitous, Feuilly, but perfectly apt. Eugene decided to leave that particular argument to the two of them, and concentrated on finding out whether any _more_ ribs were broken. How the hell have none of these pierced a lung yet? Do _not_ say that it's due to you taking care of yourself because I for one will not buy it.

"I got Dominic into this, Alex. Look what happened to him."

Feuilly shook his head, and growled a little. "You can't say he didn't fully understand what he was getting into, Perceval. We all know the risks."

Before Perceval could reply to that, Eugene found the other broken rib, and there was a particularly sharp gasp from the wounded man. Yes, yes. Well done. Breaking your ribs _hurts_. Don't you _ever_ do this for my sake again! "This is going to hurt, Perceval," Eugene added out loud rather redundantly. "You've broken at least two of your ribs again."

Feuilly pulled over another chair and sat next to Grantaire and placed a hand on his arm. They exchanged looks, warm and apologetic and forgiving at once. Grantaire smiled faintly and inclined his head and Feuilly patted his arm in response.

"Can you please at least try to be more careful with yourself?"

"I could try."

"I'll settle for try."

Eugene felt as though he were intruding on a strangely private moment and continued to check carefully that there was no penetration of the fractured or broken ribs into Perceval's lungs. You strange man. You change from Perceval to Grantaire to Scaramouche seemingly at whim. One moment you are moping because Augustin has scolded you, the next you are coolly winning a boxing match against Bahorel of all people and then after that you walk into a lunatic asylum (one does _have_ to say that one suspects you might not feel so very ill-at-ease there) in a costume... with a mask and a damned _sword..._ and exchange insults happily with a man who wants to kill you. Who are you really, behind all your masks and acts? Which man is _the_ man? Eugene looked up into his friend's tired, pained face and said quietly, "We don't want _you_ getting hurt."

"And we outnumber you," Feuilly added.

Perceval chuckled weakly and then winces. "That's the truth."

Fine. I'll settle for that. Eugene began to bind Perceval up carefully. "Il Dotore says not to bust them again, hmm?"

Both men gave him surprised, amused looks and nodded as though to say that they agreed this was indeed the perfect name for him. And voila, Maman, I have a secret codename and am apparently sort of adopted into a masked band of vigilantes on top of my extra-curricular activities as a republican activist. There are some things which will not be making it into my monthly letter home. Eugene shrugged and replaced Grantaire's shirt – determined that his collarbone was fractured, put the affected arm in a sling and cleaned the cut on his head. Well – we do what we can, Capitain.

"Just us left," Feuilly said abstractly, settling himself so Perceval could lean against him and close his eyes. "Only the three of us left standing."

"Two," Eugene said dryly, watching Grantaire's eyes finally close in exhaustion.

Feuilly sighed. "So I see." And he carefully brushed some of the man's tangled hair away from his face. It seemed almost symbolic, a lifting of a mask, a concession of humanity.

"Do we just leave them here for the night?"

"You can," Feuilly said. "I'll be staying."

Eugene smiled a little. That was – oddly comforting after the terrors and stresses of the day. "Of course. The League always sticks together, eh? I feel I am needed elsewhere." Probably. Unless by magic chance he's asleep too.

"Mmm." Feuilly was looking at Perceval and in fact hadn't stopped doing so since they'd started patching him up. "Just before you go… thanks for sticking around. We're not entirely self-sufficient yet, as you can see. Probably never will be."

Self-sufficient from the rest of us, mon ami? I sincerely hope not. God willing we'll get this – split – behind us soon. "Goodness, Alexandre. You've rescued me several times now. A little patching up is the least I can do."

"You know what I mean," Feuilly smiled and shrugged. "Sticking by us in general."

There were many things Eugene wanted to say to that. Many things about equality and brotherhood, about their friendship together and companionship in the common goal of the freedom of France. He wanted to speak on the future and on truth and on the strange duality of man, on the fact that Augustin should not really be the last left unaware of Perceval's true identity as their sometime saviour, even though he could understand that Perceval himself did not want their leader to know of his activities. He wanted to point out that there should never have been a time when wanting to help each other would lead to a break in friendships.

But in the end he looked around at the tired, sleeping, hurting men who had put so much on the line and simply shook his head. "Vive le ligue, I say."

And he left them there together.


End file.
